


A Tale of Outcast & Viper; Something Like Grieving, Like Home.

by beauty_love_stardust



Category: The OC (TV)
Genre: Abstinence, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Porn, Angst and Tragedy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Barebacking, Being Lost, Canonical Character Death, Cheating, Cliffs of Insanity, Codependency, Comfort Sex, Comfort/Angst, Coping, Crying, Dark, Dark Character, Dark Past, Darkness, Darkness Around The Heart, Depression, Drunk Sex, Drunken Kissing, Drunkenness, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, Emotional, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional Porn, Emotional Sex, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Emotionally Repressed, Emotions, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Falling In Love, Fights, Fist Fights, Forbidden Love, Forced Ejaculation, Forced Orgasm, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Guilty Pleasures, Hate Sex, Healing, Healing Sex, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Insanity, Kissing, Lost Love, Love/Hate, Lust, Manipulation, Mental Anguish, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mind Games, Obsession, Pain, Painful Sex, Past Character Death, Please Don't Hate Me, Porn, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Ryan, Psychological Drama, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, References to Depression, Rough Sex, Ryan-centric, Season 3 Finale, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Shame, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Survivor Guilt, Tender Sex, Tenderness, Touch-Starved, Touching, Tragedy, Triggers, True Love, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Vaginal Sex, What Have I Done, What Was I Thinking?, World of Darkness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:14:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25756444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beauty_love_stardust/pseuds/beauty_love_stardust
Summary: He avoided everyone else ... but he could only avoid her for so long ....Ryan has known quite a few losses in his life, but none had ever quite hit him as hard as Marissa's. He can't fathom much of anything, he exists, but doesn't live. And that continues, until Julie forces her way in and past those barriers he puts up to protect himself against another heartbreak. She's hurting, too. And sometimes it's better not to hurt, but to feel.(Bonus Fanvids at the end.)
Relationships: Ryan Atwood/Julie Cooper, Ryan Atwood/Marissa Cooper
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	A Tale of Outcast & Viper; Something Like Grieving, Like Home.

**Author's Note:**

> _So, I finished a rewatch of The OC about a month or so ago, and I have been working on this fanfic on and off ever since. I watched this show way back when I was a kid, live, but I hadn't watched it since, because I have always been somewhat bitter about the whole Marissa's death thing. But, I really wanted to write something that I haven't seen explored in this fandom and that's Ryan and Julie. The aftermath of Marissa and the grief they share is only ever glossed over by the show, but I really love the idea of them latching on to one another more or less. So, here is my rendition of post season 3. I might venture back to these characters, I might not, but for now, this is a one-off fic. If I ever do decide to continue this, I will update this with a note so feel free to sub. I have really been enjoying, hearing from all of you recently in the comment section, I answer everyone that writes in, so feel free to tell me what you think! Enjoy, Lovelies!_
> 
> _P.S. Yesterday marked the seventeenth anniversary of The OC's original airdate! I was in fourth grade when it aired! I can't believe how old that makes me feel! Happy OC anniversary, Lovelies!_

**_A Tale of Outcast & Viper; Something Like Grieving, Like Home._ **

* * *

_To live in hearts_

_we leave behind_

_is not to die._

* * *

_i_ _. absence & wounds therein._

Something in the way Marissa’s just _gone_ has fractured something in Ryan.

Maybe it’s the harsh reality of it. Perhaps even the brutal _finality_ that comes with being left on the opposite side of death, from his soulmate.

There was forever this _wall_ between the pair of them.

And it not only _broke_ him, but left him **_vulnerable_**.

Ryan never liked that sensation – the one that stems from feeling cracked open and _bare_ for the whole world to see.

Everyone in his life from Seth to Kirsten had given him these _pity_ stares. There had been hugs and _sympathy_ – **_condolences_**.

And being crushed under the weight of so many emotions, he’d **_fled_**.

It was how he _survived_.

How he _lived_ without Marissa.

There was this eternity in death that really crushed him. He couldn’t even explain it – could only feel it in the depths of his soul and know it was there.

It was like this _wound_ – this **_ache_** – that never entirely went away.

Even alone, in his own dungeon-like apartment, where the worst scum of the Earth resided, he is still _crippled_ by his emotions.

 ** _Completely_**.

He barely functioned and found the bones of another man’s fist against his skin could numb him for a while. More like a _single_ night.

He imagined the crack of a fist meeting his flesh as his _punishment_ – for not protecting Marissa, _that_ night.

He should have pulled the car over … he should have _killed_ Volchok and paid the price, before that vile monster could ever lay a hand on Marissa – he should have done a lot of things differently.

Bottom line … it was **_his_** fault.

Ryan hadn’t been able to face Julie in the month since Marissa perished. He hadn’t even attended the funeral – he just _couldn’t_.

He couldn’t fathom any of it. **_Period_**.

Putting her in the _ground_ … watching someone lower her … plant her in the **_earth_** …

He just **_couldn’t_**.

He wasn’t expecting it, that first knock. He had Marissa’s things dumped out and strewn around on his bed. There were _pictures_ of the two of them, her sweatshirt, and various other odds and ends.

Not to mention the _piles_ of clothes, dirty and clean alike scattered about the floor. Then there were the food cartons, beer cans, empty vodka bottles. The list went on and on.

He doesn’t _care_ to clean. He doesn’t care much about anything, anymore. None of it _matters_.

He thought it was Seth – at the door – and it wouldn’t have been too far outside of the realm of possibility for it to have been, him.

He shows up at random, usually offers him a ‘ _care package_ ’ from The Cohen's, filled with food and clothes. He doesn’t touch _any_ of it. He doesn’t deserve their love – _not_ **_anymore_**.

Not after what he did to their _lives_.

Just by existing he’s fucked everything up.

From the moment Sandy brought him home, he’d been a problem that they felt _obligated_ to fix – well he **_isn’t_** fixable this time. He’s tried to tell Seth as much, but he gives the man credit, he is relentless – always _has_ been.

So, he isn’t proud of how he answered the door. Ripped it open with a force, that rattled it on its hinges, an expression of aggravation in his eyes. Wearing the same clothes as yesterday, dark-circles under his eyes, and rucked-up hair, he’d snapped out: “I _told_ you! I’m not **_coming_** back, Seth!” before he could factor in the startled pink lips and puffy-red eyes of Julie Cooper reflected back at him.

He stands there, now, _flabbergasted_ with wide, apologetic eyes and a flushed hue on his cheeks from embarrassment.

He hasn’t shaved in a couple days, there is a coarse growth of stubble upon his cheeks, and he doubts he _smells_ functional. He doesn’t even _look_ functional …

She is worse for wear, however, too.

With her hastily thrown together outfit and lack of make-up. He doesn’t think he’s _ever_ seen Julie Cooper without her face all made-up, even when she resided in a run-down trailer, she’d always appeared presentable.

“Sorry …” he has the word out before _she_ can even say anything. And he feels like an asshole.

He doesn’t really know how to feel like anything _else_ these days.

“It’s okay …” she whispers, and her voice cracks with tears.

He wonders if she’s even stopped crying for the past month – he’s cried every day, but he never allows anyone to see it. Men aren’t _supposed_ to cry.

Julie is a far cry from the woman she’d been three years ago when she’d threatened him with confidence, about so much as seeing her daughter again, promising to send her to boarding school if he did.

If he’d only listened to her, **_then_** – only stayed away. Marissa wouldn’t _be_ gone …

“What are you doing here?” his voice turns hollow, eyes worn.

She clears her throat and whisks away a few tears.

“You **_loved_** her … you’re the _only_ one that loved her as much as I do … I _just_ …” she trails off and clutches tight to the strap of her purse, closing her eyes to stave off further tears.

Ryan feels his heart cinch and his gut churn.

This was _why_ he avoided Julie for all this time. Because he knew he’d never find his way _out_ of the grief if he went to her. He’d live in it, _forever_.

Julie shares some of Marissa’s features … it is _painful_ to look at her.

“Julie …” he sighs, not wanting to let her in.

He doesn’t want to suffer under the weight of Marissa’s loss any more than he already is, but this is her _mother_. Julie is Julie … and despite who she is, he _can’t_ turn her away.

She starts to turn away. “I … I shouldn’t have b-bothered you … you want to be _alone_ … of course you do … that’s _why_ you went away …” she begins to walk away and he feels himself riddle with further guilt.

It is soul-crushing.

“Julie, _wait_ …” he follows her, reaches out, catches the curve of her arm, and turns her back around.

“You don’t _have_ to go …” he absently brushes his thumb against the bend of her arm and she shivers, bodily, visibly _jarred_ by the ministration.

He hasn’t touched a woman since Marissa died. There was quite a bit of guilt about how they’d ended things, prior to her death. Marissa _isn’t_ the last person he’s been with. He’d slept with other girls, even gone back to Theresa, the girl he’d loved first – lost his virginity to at _thirteen_.

But he’d never felt anything even remotely like when he went to bed with Marissa. It was because he was in love with her, so deeply, it hurt. He lost himself when they kissed, put his whole heart and soul into it. With the other girls it had been sex, but when he was with Marissa, _that_ was **_love_**.

Ryan draws back his hand and lowers his eyes.

Julie looks up at him and he can see her view him, as though for the first time since knocking on his door, a minute ago. Her hand lifts and brushes his cheek, “What _happened_?” she asks, softly.

He jerks his cheek back out of her grip and clears his throat.

“Nothing, it’s _nothing_ ,” he mentions desperately, while verdantly trying to sound offhanded.

He had purposefully antagonized one of the vagrants outside his apartment building, tasted the fresh blood of success on his tongue as the man pounded the shit out of him.

His ribs still ache from being kicked, his lower lip is split, and cheek bruised.

It made him numb, but only for a little while. Now he just hurt.

But he considers the burn to be his punishment. So, it is okay. At least that’s what he continues to tell himself.

If he consumes a bit more alcohol, it will help numb him again, he just hasn’t gotten around to it, yet, today.

“Okay,” she doesn’t judge him. He can see that she knows what he’s done – and _why_ – because she’s cunning like that, but she doesn’t try to scold him for it.

This is how he copes – how he **_lives_** in a world without the woman he’s loved for three years.

Julie walks past him into his apartment and he follows behind her. Watches her survey the scattered mess with tired eyes. She doesn’t seem bothered by it. She dumps her purse on a messy surface and freezes when her eyes finally take in his bed.

Her eyes immediately fill again with tears and she begins to sniffle, as her hand grazes a few of the pictures for herself.

He closes the door and follows behind her, feeling that same guilt from the hallway, he reaches up to swipe a few of her tears away.

She turns into his arms and breaks down in them.

He had opened himself up to her warm body, before he realized he’d done it. And his arms were wound around her in a protective stance.

He used to be Marissa’s shield – used to guard her with his _whole_ heart, with _everything_ he had.

But somehow, that all went horribly wrong.

He **_failed_** Marissa – he let her date Volchok, drove her _into_ his arms, and didn’t try to stop it. Never tried to interfere.

He doesn’t know if he can be another person’s shield – be _Julie’s_ shield.

But here he is, holding her, letting her sob into his soiled, work t-shirt. And he is ashamed, because it feels good to have human contact that isn’t strictly, painful – that doesn’t break and batter his skin and his face. Ryan can feel the brunt of her body up his front, she is flush to him. And so _warm_.

These past weeks without human touch have taken and twisted something in him. Made him hungry for it, yet tired to the bone, and lonely. He is lonely.

But he doesn’t _deserve_ the human touch – the _contact_. He had never deserved anything that the Cohens’ or anyone else provided for him.

His dad used to pummel him, used to use his fists and tell him what a disappointment he was. How _useless_ , he was. He was a wasted space in his parent’s house. Worthless _trash_.

And he believes that now.

 _Unequivocally_.

But, despite that, despite what he _knows_ about himself, about Marissa, he is _still_ starved for touch and lonelier than he’s _ever_ been.

And having her, now, pressed in close has another reaction creeping up on him.

 _Arousal_.

He’d tried to steel himself against the world. Tried like fuck these last weeks’ not to have to feel anything when he saw Seth with his puppy-dog eyes trying to get him to come home, or brushed off a proposition of the female variety while he worked his shitty job at the mall bar, every other night.

But Julie isn’t just, **_any_** , woman. She is Marissa’s mom. She shares her DNA, some of her attributes – some of **_her_**. Touching her, is like touching a piece of Marissa that is still _here_. Still **_alive_**. And he knows the thought is twisted, but he can’t help it. Not in the moment.

Not when she’s nuzzled into him. Pushing her face into his neck and gripping his shirt like he’s some kind of lifeline. Like he’d not a piece of shit that doesn’t deserve to be here.

Julie suddenly goes rigid against him. He can hear the quiver of her breath, when she realizes the stiff, rocklike thing between them, is his manhood. He can’t control when he has erections, just like any teenager. But he isn’t just any teenager. He’s _never_ been like everyone else.

“ _Ry_ …?” Julie whispers that little nickname, like Marissa used to.

It’s delicate and _sweet_ – and **_soft_**.

And he feels it in every corner of his soul.

He’s avoided her for more than one reason and that’s become apparent, now. Probably even to her.

It’s not love, (at least not the love of soulmates) but it’s something indescribable that has surfaced in a split second – and he just **_needs_**.

And he can tell by the sight of her, that she’s been untouched, too.

That her body has been in mourning, her skin in need – and too grief-stricken to alleviate it.

He’s always spoken very few words. He finds he doesn’t always need them, and doesn’t want to define what he’s about to do. Because it’s _indefinable_.

So, he _kisses_ her, instead.

Pushes his mouth to hers and finds she _opens_ for him.

It’s timid at first, when she parts her lips and allows his tongue to push past the barrier of her teeth to explore her cavern. He’s released a strangled moan, before he can even think to stop himself and he makes the mistake of parting their lips when he reaches for Julie’s waist in a bid to hoist her off the floor, because it leaves her the opportunity to speak – to drive home what he’s doing – what he doesn’t want to think about …

“Are you _sure_ …? I-I … I’m her _mother_ ,” she breathes, as though she’s got some sort of _standard_.

But Ryan _knows_ better, they **_both_** know better.

Moral high-grounds and standards don’t _apply_ to Julie Cooper.

“Didn’t deter you from **_Luke_** …” he knows better than to reopen **_that_** wound, but he’s so frustrated with hormones, and annoyed that she broke the intended silence that he entirely forgets himself for a second.

And the look on her face tells him his carelessness cut her deep. Something he didn’t mean to do, but he is so rough around the edges these days. He’s not used to being _civil_ anymore, he doesn’t have to be, to tend bar.

But he softens all the same and peers into her eyes. The same eyes that mirror Marissa’s, and whispers, “You’re a _piece_ of her … there _is_ no one else …”

That’s the only bit of comfort he offers with his words, because he’s never been all too good with them, anyway. Then, he’s hoisting her up, launching her back onto his mattress, clamoring on top of her, feeling the burn of shame when he feels the pictures and Marissa’s possessions _touch_ him. They are still scattered all across his bed, after all.

“Ry … Shouldn’t we _move_ them …?” she’s talking about the mementos.

All of his gathered physical remnants that prove Marissa existed, once.

But he feels if he’s going to commit this debauched act, then he’s not going to hide it. It should be shameful – and he **_wants_** to feel that, while he’s in her. He **_deserves_** to.

“No,” he answers gruffly, before attacking her lips with his own.

He _can’t_ make love, not right now. He _wants_ to be gentle with Julie, but he feels this anger building in him. This reminder that he’s lost Marissa, that he’ll never be able to remember exactly how it felt to make love the way they used to. Because, every day that she’s gone his memory of her drifts farther and farther away. And that hurts more than losing her, because he doesn’t want to forget. He wants to remember – _always_.

But he **_can’t_**.

“I _deserve_ to feel this …” he doesn’t mean to say it out loud.

“What does that mean?” she’s asking before he can contemplate that he just said that aloud.

It jars him once he realizes he has, _spoken_ , but its short-lived because he’s already opened his jeans, allowed his work shirt to ride up his front, and narrowly pushed her panties to the side, before he is expertly speared up inside her.

Julie emits a little gasp. Her breath hitches and he can feel her lips part on his neck.

He doesn’t answer her question. He doesn’t know how to – and he doesn’t want to think about how much he’s betraying Marissa ( _and her memory_ ) by doing this.

So, instead, he silences her noises with a kiss, pushing his tongue back down her throat, and starts to rut into her – hard and fast.

He’s rabid and horny, like when he first became sexually active as a teenager in Chino. He used to fuck a different girl every weekend, (sometimes he’d sleep over Theresa’s and take advantage of her willingness to spread her thighs for him if there were no parties) and not feel sorry about it, because he figured he was useless trash anyway and might as well act the part.

This was his final bid to punish himself for ever believing he was worthy enough to love Marissa – to be with her in the _first_ place. Because, by sleeping with Julie, it made him the ‘ _Chino trash_ ,’ he’d always known himself to be.

This was a _new_ low.

He’s sunk so, so far.

He doesn’t even know when the tears start. It’s like the pleasure and friction of their clothes and heat, is doing something to him. Breaking him down inside, because it starts to register that he’s actually _inside_ Marissa’s mother. Fucking, _Julie Cooper_ , of **_all_** people.

And he can’t tolerate it.

The emotional toil it’s taking on him.

He breaks the kiss, because his tears run down his cheeks and _taint_ it. He can taste his own salt, breathe his own agony – and he clutches Julie’s hips like she’s his _crutch_ , and plows his hips harder against hers.

He wants the burn to worsen – and it does – this sex is borderline painful, and not just because he’s rough, but because he’s still sore from last night’s beatdown in the alley.

His ribs ache with every move. Many of his various other bruises are pushed on in the strain of his forceful rutting.

Julie is relinquishing heady sighs and moans. He can feel her pain intertwining with his. She’s feeding off of it, same as him. He can feel it in the slight curve of her spine, when she angles her hips up to meet with his.

She lifts her arms, grasps his back, through his t-shirt, digging in her nails.

He doesn’t even mind the pain, he lets it sink into his bones, while the tears come – and he doesn’t even realize he’s broken into little hitched sobs that sound more like whines.

“Tell me you **_hate_** me,” he growls into her ear, hoarsely through his moans and whimpers.

“W-What?” Julie half-sighs, through a moan. He can hear the confusion in her voice.

He flinches, when he feels the teddy bear, he won for Marissa, jerk on the bed and collide gently with his hip. He can feel it there, like a heavy reminder of the girl he **_loved_**. It’s like Marissa is _in_ the room. Watching him – seeing him sully himself, like **_trash_**.

“I _killed_ her. I killed your _daughter_. I was driving, it’s my fault she’s gone!” he forces out the words, unaware he’s really even saying them. He just wants to worsen his pain – to really _feel_ what he’s done to himself.

And Julie _never_ liked him. She’s always looked **_down_** on him. She saw him for being Chino trash even when Marissa _couldn’t_.

“No … Ry, you **_loved_** her. It’s not your fault …” she tries to be nice, tries to comfort him, but he doesn’t want to feel _good_ about this. About **_anything_**.

“I’m a _worthless_ piece of shit and you saw that, Julie – You’ve _always_ seen it! So, **_tell_** me! _Blame_ me for killing her! If I’d **_never_** touched her … If I kept my _hands_ off her … she’d still **_be_** here!” he persists, picking up the pace. Feeling the sweat build on his skin, hearing the blood rush and pound in his ears.

“N-No, no! I _won’t!_ ” she pushes back.

He’s frustrated and just on the edge of his peak, trying not to hit it, yet. But he finds he can’t _help_ it. He’s shooting his load before he can even _warn_ her – or think about it. It’s primal and his body needs this. So, he steels himself and **_spends_**.

“ ** _Say it_**!” he tries one last time, while blinded with burning fire and shocks of pleasure, spurts of his seed pumping into her.

“Never,” Julie breathes.

He collapses on top of her in a messy heap, defeated. And he sobs into her neck, like a child. Like he’s _never_ done before.

“You’re _not_ worthless, Ry,” she coaxes, in a very un-Julie-like tone, “she _loved_ you. You’re **_family_** , Ry. You’re always going to be _my_ family,” Julie whispers, “You would have **_married_** her, someday.”

He is reminded of how much he _wanted_ to be with Marissa. How much he _did_ love her – how much he _still_ does. And it stings. He wants to shove the teddy bear away from where it’s still resting at his hip, but has no energy to do so. He feels the crinkle of the photographs under them. There is even Marissa’s sweatshirt nearby. It still **_smells_** like her fragrance.

“N-No … S-Stop, J-Julie …” he tries to plead, but she’s clutching tighter to him, instead, not allowing him to pull away, like he so desperately wants to.

“You **_loved_** her. You made her final years, happier,” Julie continues, ignoring his pleas, “and I could _never_ hate you for loving her. How could I fault you for taking care of her?”

Ryan sobs harder into her neck, trembling for all he is worth on top of her. He realizes the broken cracks in him are showing through. Julie can see them and is trying to make reparations to him with words – to **_fix_** him.

He’s fully exposed and vulnerable as ever, right now, coming down from his release. Stirring with sensitivity and not even buzzed from his two morning beers, he doesn’t want to be seen by her, this way.

He doesn’t want anyone to know what he struggles with deep down. The feelings of loneliness and worthlessness, instilled in him by his prison-serving father, and alcohol-and-drug-abusing mother that abandoned him.

Ryan is quiet in her arms for a long time, trying to contain his tears, to bring himself back under some semblance of control. He needs to come back out of this and _pretend_ like it’s **_nothing_**. He has to, otherwise, what will he do?

He finds the strength to draw up and out of her. Listens to the crinkle from the photographs and stares longfully down at the teddy bear, that is still nose-down on the mattress, reminding him of Marissa’s smile when he won it for her.

It makes his stomach ail with sickness, to think about how he plowed her mother on _her_ things, like some kind of animal. He really _wasn’t_ worthy of Marissa; he thinks to himself.

Julie’s still sprawled on her back, thighs open, panties automatically shifting back in place, and he can see the distinctive milky shine of his seed pooling out of where he’s _marked_ her, as his own.

He’s still panting, and Julie has the commonsense to at least appear guilty, as she peers around at the objects of Marissa’s that surround her, but he doesn’t feel like judging her right now. He has no _room_ to judge.

He feels his skin crawl – and he wants to go out there and antagonize another prick so he can be made numb, again. Maybe one of them will have a knife, someday. Better yet, a _gun_.

Maybe they will end his miserable life, once and for all.

He decides that he would deserve it. _Completely_.

He wants to die in pain, the way Marissa did. The way **_he_** should have, _that_ night.

“Ry—”

“Don’t,” he pleads, this time with a harsh edge to his tone, “Just _don’t_.”

He wants to tell her there is no way for her to make this better. He’s a lost cause – he’s clearly beyond help. Way past the point of wanting help. And he really curses the idea of it, right now.

Ryan fidgets with his jeans, tucks his dripping length back inside, and zips them back up.

He winces as a sharp, unexpected, pain shoots just under his ribs, but recovers seconds later, forcing the strained expression _off_ his face.

Julie sits up, closes her legs, then smooths her dress, before wiping away a few stray tears on her cheeks.

“You should put some ice on it,” Julie comments, “or a hot pad.”

He shoots her a glance, with furrowed brows.

“Why did you come here, Julie? Why _now_?” he asks, avoidant of her previous statement.

“I just …” Julie’s eyes falters and she doesn’t seem willing to continue.

Ryan ruffles a hand through his hair, loosening the sweaty strands.

“You just, _what_? Huh, Julie? Let me guess, _Seth_ sent you? To try and change my mind, about coming back? Or did you just come on your own? Were you curious to see what I’ve _become_ in her absence? Is _that_ it?” he isn’t _really_ mad at Julie. He doesn’t blame her for what he’s done, but the guilt and shame is too great and he has to alleviate some of it, somehow. He’s in a tailspin and he can’t stop himself – doesn’t even give her a chance to formulate a response, before he barrels on, “Or did you just come to try and figure out what she _saw_ in me? Why she’d come to **_bed_** with someone **_like_** me?”

Julie’s eyes widen, now, and her face pales.

He can see the burn of red on her cheeks and sees her squeeze her thighs, as though reminding herself that his seed is still _warm_ inside of her.

“You think I came here … for **_that_**?” Julie exhales and swipes more tears.

“I don’t _know_ , Julie. I don’t fucking know **_why_** you’re here. Why **_are_** you here? _Huh_?” he fires back.

She stands up, wobbling a bit on her feet. He assumes she’s adjusting to the bruises he’s peppered onto the inside of her thighs.

“I came on my own. I just wanted to **_see_** that you were okay,” she pauses, seeming to think better of that statement when he flashes her a look, “well, not _okay_ , because who am I kidding, neither one of us is okay, but you’re the one she loved _most_ in this world. She’d want me to take care of you, if I _could_. And I wanted to see you. I **_needed_** to see you, Ry—"

“Why do you keep _calling_ me that?” every time he hears that fond nickname, Marissa used for him, it triggers his memories of her, wounding him.

“What? _Ry_?” she asks.

He flinches, “Yes, _that_. **_She_** called me that. Why do _you_ keep using it? You won’t hurt me, the way I _ask_ you too, but you’ll keep calling me **_that_** name …”

“If it hurts you, I won’t use it anymore, Ryan,” she promises, with sad eyes.

“Why do you want me to be okay? Why do you **_care_**? Why don’t you **_hate_** me? I took her _from_ you. You should _despise_ me. You should be happy that I’m in pain – you should _revel_ in it, even,” he’s encroached on her space, now. His hands move to rest at her hips, massaging his thumbs into the curves.

She keens a bit, loosening for him, “I don’t _blame_ you. I blame _Volchok_. He killed her, you tried to **_save_** her …” Julie trails off as he digs into a particularly sensitive spot, causing her to jilt a bit.

“I **_failed_**. Just like I _always_ have. You were right, all along, Julie. I wasn’t _good_ for her. I **_ruined_** her. I ruin _everything_ ,” he lets the words fall between them, doesn’t care if she hears them, now. He just wants to make her see why she shouldn’t be here.

He’s conflicted in _so_ much, but not in his own self-worth. He knows where **_that_** stands.

“So that’s all you want, Ryan? You want to _hurt_? Do you think _that_ will bring her back? If you hurt **_badly_** enough it will restore her? Because it _won’t_. Nothing **_ever_** will,” Julie shoots back.

“I think _you_ should _go_ , Julie. This was a **_mistake_** ,” he insists, after a moment of tense silence between them.

He turns away, releasing her waist, making to head for the freezer, where he knows he has a bottle of vodka stashed.

“It’s been a _while_ , hasn’t it?” Julie calls out to him and he stilled, hand on the freezer door.

“ _What_ has?” he doesn’t turn back to her. Instead, he pops open the freezer door, retrieves the vodka, and pours himself a glass. He needs to be intoxicated. He wants to be _hazy_ before he goes outside and antagonizes someone.

“Since you’ve had _sex_ ,” she challenges.

He almost _chokes_ on his sip of straight vodka.

Clearing his throat, he narrows his eyes, “Why do you say _that_?” He’s reaching for his pack of Camels on the counter, now, striking up the lighter, he lights the end of a death stick, taking a puff. Since he no longer resides with the Cohen’s he has found himself crawling back to the old habit.

“I can tell,” she admits, clearly choosing to ignore his smoking. “You were rough about it. Needy. Like a man **_starved_** for it …”

Ryan’s cheeks redden again; his skin crawls. With a shaky hand, he pulls the cigarette from between his lips, blowing out a puff of smoke from his lungs.

“So, what Julie? So, what if it’s been a while? What is your _point_? Was I not **_good_** enough for you? I’m _sorry_ , okay?” He could feel the fire in his veins. He was tainted by this feeling – by his own needs, he stupidly let show, to her.

He _regrets_ it, now.

 _All_ of it.

Most especially the vulnerability – the weakness he’d unwittingly _revealed_ to her.

“It’s been since she _died_ , hasn’t it? You haven’t touched _anyone_ since she died …” Julie states, gently. He doesn’t sense any judgement behind it, nor any depiction of her relishing in his frustration or pain. She’s _just_ stating a fact.

He clenches his fist around his glass, trying not to shatter it, taking a few more puffs of his cigarette, before he puts it out on the counter, suddenly antsy – not at all calmed by the nicotine like he usually is.

“Maybe it _has_ ,” he closes his eyes, and steadies himself on the counter, “What makes you _think_ that?”

“Because I haven’t either … been _with_ anyone,” she replies, solemnly.

He shrugs his shoulders and pushes off the counter, downing the glass in a few rough gulps.

“I still _fail_ to see your point, Julie,” he rasps, through the burn of vodka rushing down his esophagus, the taste of nicotine still hot on his breath.

“You must have girls throwing themselves at you, left and right. You’re _handsome_ ,” she observes, “So, if it was such a mistake, why do it with _me_? Why not pick one of **_those_** other girls to bury your frustrations in?”

He feels his heart jilt with realization, “Does it _matter_? Does the _why_ , matter? I just **_did_**.” He pours himself another glass, downing that one, too. He isn’t even _buzzed_ yet – he loathes his high tolerance to alcohol.

Julie ventures around the counter, stopping his hand before it could carry _another_ full glass to his lips.

“It’s because you _search_ for her in _every_ girl, isn’t it?” she pries and he thinks his heart might blow apart right there.

“W-What?” he rasps, in a tone of shock.

“That’s it, _isn’t_ it? You see her _everywhere_ … search for her in every girl’s eyes, in their _lips_ , in their _voices_ … but none of them are **_her_**.”

He’s beginning to tremble, the glass **_does_** shatter, then. Spilling vodka and little shards onto the counter, but it’s all but forgotten by them both. Because he’s focused solely on _her_ – and she’s looking at him with those round, broken eyes, that no longer frighten him like they might have, _once_.

“D-Don’t …” Ryan whimpers, feeling that dreaded vulnerability creeping back in, again.

“Was she your _last_ , Ry?” he shudders from the usage of that nickname, again, as much as from the question she asked, “Are you trying to _preserve_ all your memories of her? Keeping her mementos on your bed, where you _sleep_. How do you find relief, Ry? Do you _touch_ yourself when you think about her?” her spare hand ventures down brushing his manhood through the rough denim.

His eyes dilate with lust, skin pulses, thick with blood. And the alcohol hits him, then. He’s starting to loosen in the muscles. His mind is mildly hazy, a _sort_ of buzz.

“ _Julie_ …” he all but whines out. She’s stricken him, where it hurts. Taken and pushed her way into his most _intimate_ shame. He’s spilled his seed over his own hand a few times since Marissa died. He’s thought about Marissa, he’ll _always_ think about her. How he **_loved_** her … How he **_never_** deserved to.

“Do _you_?” she presses, with her lip’s inches from his ear.

“She wasn’t my **_last_** , Julie …” he strains out, mortified by his erection, already at full mast, pulsing against her massaging fingers, “… but I _do_ think about her … touch myself … _sometimes_ …” he wants to lie to her, but he can’t. There’s something _about_ Julie Cooper that prevents him from being untruthful.

Her solemn eyes, soften, becoming tender when she hears his response.

“But you _wish_ she was … your **_last_** …” Julie concludes, with that same weighted sadness in her voice.

Ryan squares his jaw, trying not to let her see how deeply it wounds him to know, Marissa died, thinking he didn’t _want_ her anymore. That he’d moved _on_. In truth, he’d never moved on from Marissa. She will always have a complex claim over his heart. And it burns him most of all that she died, **_not_** knowing that.

He can still _see_ her, even now, in this moment, tears in her eyes and a sad smile on her lips, asking if he’d ever believed they’d end up together in the end. He can _still_ remember the vague answer he gave, and wishes more than anything he’d dried her tears and _kissed_ her – then and there – begged her to **_stay_**.

His _pride_ got in the way. It _always_ had.

“Why are you _doing_ this …?” he finally manages to whisper, pain in his chest from the reality all caving in on him at once.

Julie creeps in closer, until she’s flush against him … until he can **_taste_** her breath, _feel_ her warmth … and he _burns_ for another round. He wants to take her again. And he riddles with self-disgust at his own weakness.

“Because I don’t _want_ to be alone, anymore, Ry. I spend all my days and nights, alone,” she admits, “I want to stay _here_ , with you,” she finally lifts her hand from his bulged hardness, drawing in closer, “And I want you to _kiss_ me, like you kissed _her_. Show me … how **_she_** touched you … how **_you_** touched her. If you want to preserve the memory, I’m the only one, alive, that _can_ help you, do that. As you mentioned, before, I’m a _piece_ of her. And she’s a piece of _me_.”

“It was … things were _different_ with her …” he relents, letting Julie in an inch will have her taking a yard. He knows that truth about Julie, but he can’t bring himself to stop things, now that they’ve begun.

“It’s because you loved her with all your heart. You’ve _never_ loved like that, before, have you?” she quips.

He shakes his head, after a moment, peering directly into her eyes. “ _Never_ ,” he manages to say.

“Was it slow and soft? Did you _explore_ her?” Julie is bringing his memories forward and he can’t help how his mind wanders, trying to _delve_ into them, compulsively.

“I had to be … I was afraid to _hurt_ her … to _startle_ her,” he remembers their first time, after Trey … how she’d cowered from him for _weeks_. How it hurt to think about touching her, when she _feared_ his touch. He’d been so careful, when she **_was_** finally ready.

Julie brushes his cheek, rubbing the skin, there.

“You _couldn’t_ have hurt her. She knew you wouldn’t, _ever_ ,” she insists.

Ryan swallows thickly, “ ** _Trey_** hurt her …” Ryan heaves a breath from the memory, trying not to tremble under the weight of his guilt for bringing Trey into her life, to begin with.

“But never **_you_** ,” she reassures him.

Ryan shook his head, but still feels regret about Trey. About the _whole_ debacle.

“You made _love_ to her, Ry. You made her _feel_ loved and safe, always,” she muses, softly, “and she’d _want_ this for you. She’d want you to be, okay, again. If you dig deep enough you can still _feel_ her, Ry. You can feel her _between_ us. She’s **_always_** going to be here, with you, with _us_ … close your eyes,” she orders, gently.

He did as she bade, letting his eyes fall closed.

“ ** _Think_** about her, Ry,” Julie quips, while brushing her hands up the chest of his shirt, eagerly.

His mind drifts to Marissa, just as Julie asked it to. He can see the warmth of her smile, feel the touch of her limber fingers on his chest, and he simpers.

“Feel her here, with us … with **you** … remember what it was like when you kissed her, when you were **_inside_** of her. Let her in, let her _all_ the way in …” Julie demands, and his body crawls with heat. His lungs burn with every breath he takes in, and he **_aches_** for Marissa.

Burns in a way he can’t even describe.

“Say her _name_ ,” another command.

“ ** _Marissa_** …” he can barely whine.

He’s turned antsy and is ready to take with all the passion he can muster. He _wants_ Marissa, feels her in his bones and his heart. It’s crushing and exhilarating, all at once.

“Do you **_need_** her, Ry? Can you _feel_ her in your blood?” she teases and he shudders.

“Yes … _Marissa_ …” he whimpers again, his mind drifts farther from reality.

He simpers in his throat on the brink of losing control, he hoists her up, planting her on the counter, well out of reach of the broken glass. He wants to be level with her – and allow his hormones to take charge, again.

He wants to _feel_ the tight heat of Marissa’s sex around his cock, and he’s lost in the fantasy.

“You can _have_ me, Ry, like you **_used_** to,” she whispers, playing the part, egging him on.

He’s so tired of being _without_ her, of needing her so badly he feels he might **_die_** , that he finally caves in – hook, line, and sinker.

He draws her to the end of the counter, lets her parted thighs, meet his throbbing need. Let’s her _feel_ him.

He’s on her _neck_ , then, kissing and sucking hickies and love-marks into the skin. Then, pushes up his lips to mesh with hers. His heart tugs when her hands tangle in his hair, brushing the short strands.

He barely even registers that he’s begun to dry hump her. His body is _screaming_ to take, but he doesn’t _want_ to be rough and raw, this time. He wants to be the way he was, **_before_**. The gentle, easing way he was, before.

“Fuck … _Fuck_ … Marissa …” he keens trying to steady himself, trying to think straight.

“You want to go to _bed_ , Ry? Hm?”

He needs no further encouragement to lift her again, through his lust-filled haze, carry her over to his bed, and lay her down on top of it.

He _is_ gentle this time. He strips her, _slow_ , eases her out of her dress, then panties. He wants to remember how it **_feels_** to make love. How it feels to give himself _over_ to it.

She peels off his shirt, explores his biceps, the dip of his back, the _curve_ at his hip …

He’s _ruddy_ and _swollen_ – **_thick_** – between his thighs, to the point that it’s _incredibly_ painful.

She urges him to keep his eyes closed, to prevail in the fantasy she’s spun for him.

And he **_does_**.

He _wants_ to live in it.

He makes to spread her thighs, kisses and licks the sweet cream. Tasting the tangy mix of his seed from _before_ , still inside of her.

He doesn’t think on it, though. He’s climbed back up her frame, and is now poised at her entrance, primed and ready to take.

“Make _love_ to me, Ry,” she keens into his ear – and he _submits_ to her will.

He’s longed to _feel_ Marissa for too long, now – and he just **_can’t_** withstand anymore.

He’s inside of her with a heady thrust, nestled in the cavern that’s hot and wet. It feels _tight_ this time, because he _doesn’t_ just take. He lets himself settle a moment, bask in the luxury of pleasure, over pain.

It’s what he **_can_** do, in the moment.

She keens from his ministrations, like a contented cat, and he swears for a moment it’s the same breathy sound as _Marissa_ used to utter.

She’s all _heat_ and **_need_** , under him, and he feels her fingers prime against his biceps, when his even-paced thrusts, begin.

“ _Marissa_ …” he lets that sinful name slip out again, this time it’s **_more_** than longing – it’s **_desire_** and practical hankering for it to really be _her_ that’s sprawled on his sheets.

He’s spent every night, _alone_ , in this empty bed, tucked close to Marissa’s sweatshirt that exuded her scent, praying for her to transmit into his dreams. Pleading for just _one_ more night – one more **_touch_** – that would forever stay with him.

And now … now he’s locked into this tangent of repressed urgency and fire. And it feels like Marissa’s here – _right now_.

Julie’s being just a conduit that brought her back to him.

“I’m _here_ , Ry … right here …” the words make him shiver, and he drives his hips with wider lunges, to penetrate deep inside of her.

She **_broke_** him. Fractured his mind and landed him on a collision course with his own Chino-born nature.

He doesn’t _deserve_ pleasure, satisfaction … but he has it, here … _now_ , in this instant.

With **_her_**.

“F-Fuck …” he’s only pumped his hips a few times. He’s _so_ sensitive down there. He’s throbbing with need, pulsing with _fire_ , and all it takes is her gentle tweaks and rubs to his neck and back, for him to tumble over that edge.

He emits a **_loud_** cry and spends, pumping thick blots of seed for a second time, tonight, inside of her. He laments his mourning for his lost love, in a low cry, feeling the orgasm drift through him, accompanied by the unique realization that reality was crashing back home, with it.

 _Julie_ was under him – not **_Marissa_**.

He’s just shared something _far_ more intimate than needy, vigorous, **_sex_** with her.

By allowing her into this deeply _depraved_ place in him, he’s also permitted her to view a portion of his private suffering. And also, given her something he holds _most_ dear … his most cherished intimacy previously **_reserved_** for Marissa.

In a final, sorrow-filled sweep of craving to hang on to this moment, he moves one of his hands to entwine his fingers with hers, and the other to cup her cheek, drawing her into a **_desperate_** kiss.

All the while, his eyes remain tightly clamped shut. Envisioning the picturesque image of Marissa that _forever_ remains in his mind’s eye.

When the kiss breaks, he lowers his head onto her shoulder, lets her hold him with her free hand, while he still clutches hold of her other. She’s been quiet since their combined release, all he can hear is the shudder of her breath, against his ear.

When the silence breaks, _he’s_ the one that breaks it. His eyes open, as the fantasy fades to black, and meets her eyes. “What have _I_ done …?” he muddles out the words, voice in a _quiver_.

Julie squeezes the hand that’s still intertwined with hers. “Nothing **_so_** wrong …” she muses, still caught up in the afterglow of it all.

Ryan can hear his father’s voice in his head, screaming at him for his misdeeds. Persisting about his worthlessness. And he feels that _here_ , **_now_** , more than _ever_ before.

“I **_promised_** myself, Julie,” he whimpers. “I promised myself I’d _never_ make love … that was **_ours_** , do you understand? That piece of me … _this_ piece of me … it’s **_hers_**. It belongs to Marissa …” he doesn’t know quite how to describe what he means, to her.

But the ache he’s felt without Marissa, doesn’t come _close_ to what he feels now, coming down from the sensations attached to the pleasures of slow and sensual intimacy.

“She doesn’t _want_ you to ache, Ry,” Julie breathes, “and she wouldn’t want you to keep _hurting_ yourself this way, either,” Julie lifts her spare hand, drags her thumb across his bruised cheek for emphasis.

He flinches, muscles bunching at his shoulders. “That’s **_not_** your business, Julie. You don’t know _what_ you’re talking about.”

He pulled up and out of her, settling at the end of the bed, faced away from her.

He can hear her shift on the bed. The mattress makes little creaks and groans of protest. Before he knows it, she’s looped her arm through one of his own, and is rubbing up and down his bicep, smoothly.

“I lost her, Ry. Please, don’t make me lose you, too …” she whispers against his ear.

He suddenly bristles with a shade of anger that isn’t necessarily _because_ of her, but stems from how he currently feels.

“I’m not **_yours_** , Julie. Okay? You might have … fucked me _up_ a little … toyed with my **_head_** , but I want you to understand, it **_won’t_** happen again. Ever,” he snaps, persistently, launching to his feet in order to create some space between them.

He also begins replacing his clothes, needing to cover his skin from her eyes. He feels so vulnerable with her able to see all of him, like she can.

“Ryan—”

“ _No_! **_No_** , Julie! I’m _sorry_ you’re hurting. I’m sorry that you **_lost_** her, but … but _this_ is wrong, okay? We’ve crossed a line we never had a _right_ to cross! The first time … we were _lonely_ … it was **_need_** … but that, just **_now_** … that was **_unforgivable_**!”

He wants her to understand.

He needs **_someone_** to understand.

With a frustrated sigh he yanks on his shirt, last. Fully dressed by this point (despite her still completely naked on the end of the bed) and he heads back toward the counter. Swiping the vodka, he downs what’s left in the bottle.

He was already woozy, now he’s starting to feel the effects worsening.

“Ryan, **_please_** …” Julie breathes, when he’s reached the door to his shitty apartment.

“I’m going to _go_ now, Julie. And I need you to not be _here_ when I get back, okay?” he’s softened his tone, but he means every word.

She’s sobbing now, “I c-can’t go back _there_ … please, don’t make me go **_back_** , Ry—”

He slams his fist against the wall, hard enough to make a loud ‘ _thwack’_ against it. He sees her jump, and for a split second he thinks of the way his _mom_ used to jump when his dad would slam things while drunk – _or_ _high_ – and feels his stomach cinch. All the _more_ reason he needs her to leave. He doesn’t want to _be_ like his father. He never wants a woman to be **_afraid_** of him – of what he’s **_capable_** of.

_Never again._

“Don’t _call_ me that!” he hisses, “I can’t lose _control_ like that again! I can’t ever have you _play_ her again, Julie, understand?! It’s _fucked_! It’s fucking **_Beyond_** _fucked_!”

She’s quietly sobbing on the bed and he _wants_ to comfort her, but he **_needs_** to get out of there, more. “I u-understand,” her voice is soft, broken – _defeated_.

“Good. I _want_ to be alone, Julie. I **_have_** to be.” He threw open his door, then turned back one last time, to lay eyes on her. “Guys like me, we don’t _get_ to be happy. You were **_always_** right about that.”

He swept through the door, closing it behind him. He doesn’t halt to listen to her broken sobs. He can’t _stand_ that he’s the cause of them – and he doesn’t _want_ to turn back now.

He **_can’t_**.

With decisiveness, he storms down the hall, and out into the back-alley. There are _always_ a few thugs hanging around. He starts shit with the **_biggest_** one.

Throws a few carefully placed words at him. Spews _hate_.

Before he can even finish shit-talking this guy’s mother, he’s been _decked_ in the face.

He tastes blood on his bottom lip, laps at it with his tongue and stands again. He’d just been given a **_warning_** shot – he doesn’t **_want_** a warning; he wants the whole nine yards – so he shit-talks some more.

This time, the guy _doesn’t_ hold back.

He punches, kicks, and throttles him.

Ryan revels in the pain – because it’s what he **_deserves_** – for how he just _betrayed_ Marissa, **_twice_**.

He deserves _this_ and much worse … and he’ll make **_sure_** he gets it, no matter **_what_** …

* * *

_ii. deep impressions & internal wounds._

The days start to blur _together_ , now.

After the worst beatdown he’s _ever_ had, it took him nearly a week to overcome the pain. He was only **_numb_** for a few hours, then the agony came to take over everything else. He’d probably fractured his ribs, possibly _other_ body parts, but he hadn’t cared.

He’d still tended bar every other night, fighting through the pain every movement caused.

But his intake of _alcohol_ had gone up – which caused his days to **_blend_**.

Julie had been gone when he returned – like he _told_ her to be – and just like he asked she hadn’t tried to visit, again.

The rundown, studio apartment, was _all_ he had, again. Along with Marissa’s _personal_ belongings, for comfort.

He’d left them sprawled on his bed, as **_reminders_** of what he’d lost – and what he’d **_betrayed_** that night with Julie.

Through his bleary haze of alcohol and countless antagonized fights, (that left his brain most likely damaged and body battered) he’d begun to sleep _more_ , take care of himself even _less_. He’d fallen into a depression so deep he didn’t know **_how_** (or _if_ it was even _possible_ ) to pull himself back out of it.

Then, there was _Seth_.

Still so goddamned **_relentless_** about his return home.

He’d taken to slamming the door in his face, usually he didn’t even bother _answering_ at all. Ryan realized after a few months, that he had truly become the useless piece of shit his father always _accused_ him of being. More than that, he’d settled **_into_** that role. He drank, barely controlled his temper with Seth, and the last time he **_saw_** Seth he’d punched him in the face.

That was two weeks ago, and Seth hadn’t come around, _since_.

It wasn’t until Seth gave up, that Ryan realized just how _isolated_ he’d made himself. How _alone_ – **_lonely_**.

He felt guilty for laying a hand on Seth, but he knew his temper was growing rapidly out of control, again, just like his father’s used to be when _he_ was drunk. He’d been unpredictable, practically **_lethal_**. Ryan could still see the outline of his father’s gruff shape, hunkered down in a chair in the living room, cradling a beer in hand.

He saw a sudden memory of it, just _now_ , when he cracked open his freezer to chug vodka straight from the bottle. It was his _newest_ habit, after a long night shift at the bar. His muscles were tired, head pounding, and he just needed **_something_** to ease the frustrations.

Once again, he’d been _abstaining_ from sex. This time, however, he hadn’t even allowed himself the solace of _masturbation_ – so his frustrations were _immense_ , almost **_intolerable_** , all the time. Consequently, he’d find himself caught-up, almost nightly, in sensual dreams of Marissa, and most shamefully of all, sometimes there were even dreams of **_Julie_**.

He would always wake up in tears. _Ashamed_ – **_disgusted_** with himself, furiously whisking the emotions away with a swipe of his arm, before he’d strip his sheets and clean the mess of seed spilled in his sleep.

It almost felt like he was a pre-teen, again. This was the worst his nocturnal emissions had _ever_ been, but he no longer _cared_. He deserved to suffer – in **_every_** conceivable way. He was still considering it penance – not that he could _ever_ make up for his sinfully corrupt night of comfort with Julie. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to make things right with himself over _that_.

With a sigh, he topped off the bottle of vodka, closing the freezer door, brusquely.

The left side of his face was currently bruised and swollen from a fight, his leg was acting up on him, too. His knee had dislocated last month during one of the _varied_ beatdowns. The muscle had stretched and now, it hurt off and on.

He was about to strip his shirt off and climb underneath his bedcovers when a knock sounded at his door.

It was the first time in _two weeks_ , that he’d had anyone knock.

Since, **_Seth_** …

Ryan steadied himself, squared his shoulders, and decided to _answer_ it.

He owed Seth an _apology_ for the last time … he was only trying to be a good _friend_ – a good **_brother_** – it wasn’t his fault that Ryan was a fucking screw-up.

He took a few deep breaths, trying to ignore the pain that shot up his sides when he breathed in too deep, and creaked open the door.

He didn’t _expect_ to see Julie, suitcase in tow, with a swollen, _bruised_ eye and cheek, tears streaming down her face.

He was **_speechless_**. Just like last time she appeared this way …

“Julie—”

“I know you d-don’t want me here. I kn-now I’m not w-welcome here, b-but I n-need to talk to you. I … I’ll l-leave right after, I j-just … p-please …” she begs.

He can see her shivering with tremors, and she looks like she’s no better off than he is. Like she is primed to _collapse_ any second, now.

He sets his jaw, but steps aside, allowing her entry which she takes advantage of, rolling her suitcase along behind her.

“What’s with the _suitcase_?” he asks, deciding against asking about the bruise on her face, because it makes him want to go out and kill someone, over it. Even if he kicked Julie out of his life, she is **_still_** Marissa’s mother – she still means _something_ to him and always **_will_**.

She sits on the edge of his bed (this time not even acknowledging that Marissa’s things are still scattered same as they were all those months ago) and wipes a few tears, sniffling.

“I’m _leaving_ , Newport,” she admits, sourly.

He tries not to wince, while sitting down alongside her at the end of his mattress.

“What about Kaitlin?” Last he knew her only surviving child was staying at home with her.

“She’s already back at boarding school,” Julie sniffles again. Then whispers, “ _Thank_ _God_ …” offhandedly. He almost _doesn’t_ hear it.

His fist tightens and the knuckles turn white. Less than a minute near her and he’s already _itching_ for another fight, even if he doesn’t use his fists much to _defend_ himself anymore, he does miss it, some. Punching in deserving faces in the name of _Marissa Cooper_. He’d do the same for _Julie_ , if she asked him.

“What happened?” he asks tensely, narrowing his eyes.

“ ** _You_** happened, Ry,” she seems to forget herself for a moment, reaches for his hand and takes it. Her hand is warm and soft in his, radiating heat, practically.

It’s not the gesture so much as the physical touch that makes his skin _burst_ with impromptu lust and yearning. He’s not let a girl touch him since _her_. Not even so much (or little) as a _graze_. He’s behaved as though girls are the **_plague_** – and maybe they _are_. They’re **_his_** plague, anyway.

His reaction is quick, instantaneous – and driven by the past few months of _constant_ frustration.

He springs up from the bed and distances himself from her. “What is it that you _want_ , Julie?” he snaps, “Hoping to play on my _grief_ , some more? Delude me into believing you’re _her_ , again? Is **_that_** it?”

Julie lowers her hand back to her lap, wiping her tears.

“N-No … That’s not …” she closes her eyes, lets out a deep breath, then shakes her head. “I shouldn’t have _come_. It was a foolish, s-stupid, thing to do.”

He stares at her now, quizzically, because he can sense her change in tone. Something is _wrong_ … **_really_** wrong.

She stands back to her feet and reaches for her suitcase handle, and he sees her flinch, lifting a hand to her ribs in order to staunch _pain_. He’s been through enough pain to know that _she’s_ in it. And it’s more than **_just_** her eye …

He knows he is going to regret it, but finally decides to step in-between her and the door, blocking her attempted exit.

“Why _did_ you come, Julie?” he’s forced himself to simmer down enough to ask.

She lowers her eyes, then attempts to walk past him, without answering, so he grips her arm to prevent her – and sees her wince again – then **_flinch_**.

“ _Who_ did this to you?” his voice does radiate anger, now. It’s _calm_ , but **_seething_**.

“Why do you _care_ , Ryan? You told me to stay away … I _shouldn’t_ have come to say goodbye,” she tries to yank her arm free, but he blocks her path again, once she manages to.

“You’re Marissa’s _mother_ , Julie. Of course, I **_care_** what happens to you …” he argues, fiercely.

Despite his shame over what occurred between them, he’d never want her to wind up like his mother. Beaten unconscious and left to wake up in the _hospital_. It’d happened more than once, throughout Ryan’s formative years. His father had always been an aggressive drunk.

Julie swallowed, noticeably, then avoided his eyes.

“Yeah? Well it doesn’t matter, _anymore_. I’m _leaving_ ,” she reiterates.

“So, you’ve said. But _why_ , Julie? **_Why_** are you leaving? Did the money run out, again?” It was no secret that Julie continuously married for wealth. But it also seemed to keep being the case, that the men she married turned up bankrupt after a while.

“This has _nothing_ to do with money, but of course you’d believe it was,” she forces a bitter laugh, flicking away more tears.

He releases her arm and searches her eyes, trying to find answers in them. “Then what _is_ this about? Did Summer’s **_father_** do this to you?”

Her mouth settles in a thin line and she stands rigid – _still_ – not saying anything for a moment.

He lifts his eyebrow in a questioning stance.

“I couldn’t _hide_ it from him anymore …” she whispers.

“Couldn’t hide _what_?” frustration fused into his tone, flashing in his cobalt eyes.

She reaches for his hand, before he can even think to stop her, and pulls it flush against her lower abdomen. He _feels_ the protrusion, then. It’s small, but noticeable, though not under the combination of the coat she’s wearing and the slightly loose dress.

His hand shook and he drew it back, trembling.

“You’re _pregnant_?” he didn’t even realize she **_could_** get pregnant at her age. She was getting up there, in terms of having a child. He steadies himself, recovering his wits a little, “Why would he mind that?”

Julie laughs again, then shakes her head.

“ _Really_ , Ryan? Do I have to spell it _out_ for you?” she wets her lips with her tongue, “I haven’t gone to _bed_ with him since Marissa died. I’ve only gone to bed with **_one_** man since then,” her forest green eyes find his and his blood runs cold.

Horrible ** _understanding_** creeps in all of the sudden – _careening_ into him like a semi-truck.

“B-But then …” he can’t finish that thought.

“I’m carrying **_your_** child, Ry, not my _husband’s_ ,” she confirms, her voice cracking slightly.

So many thoughts encroach on him at once. He remembers the pain of going through this the first time. Believing that Theresa was carrying his baby. Living with her, planning to spend his life with her, then the pain of believing that _same_ child was lost in a miscarriage, come to find it was just **_him_** that Theresa chose to set free.

He still thinks about Theresa sometimes. He thinks about how he was _never_ good enough for her, either. She sent _him_ away, after all, even the last time he saw her, just before Marissa’s death, she’d still chosen to be with no one, rather than be with **_him_**.

He’s _not_ father material. He’s not **_anything_**.

It suddenly occurs to him that she’s wounded – _bruised_ – and another _man_ must have done that to her, _while_ she is **_pregnant_**. That’s even more unforgivable than hitting her _ordinarily_.

“And he _beat_ you for it?” He doesn’t want to think about his future parental responsibilities. But he can focus on the bruises peppering her face – and the way she _winced_ when she stood up.

“He was _enraged_ … He caught me stepping out of the shower and noticed the bump. He didn’t _beat_ me, Ryan … He just **_hit_** me, while I was standing near the top of the stairs and I fell, alright?”

Ryan’s mouth fell open, “He knocked you down the **_stairs_**?!” He saw red in this moment, picturing her battered and broken at the bottom of a stairwell … It made him **_queasy_**.

“He could have _killed_ you! Or the _child_ …” Ryan brushes her stomach, this time he’s almost _protective_ about it. He’s done this before. He’s watched a child grow inside a woman. And he watched his mother **_lose_** a child once – he’ll never forget the blood … the _pain_ she suffered through …

“Ry, he _didn’t_. I went to the hospital; my child is **_safe_**. But that’s _why_ I have to leave. I can’t stay in Newport. I don’t want the gossip to spread, once I start to visibly show. What _we_ did … No one can understand the why but, us … and you know how _those_ women are …”

Ryan _does_ know – that’s the whole problem. He can’t imagine the way Kirsten would look at him … or Sandy … or even Seth.

It registers ( _finally_ ) in Ryan, about what she is _actually_ telling him – what she’s saying **_to_** him …

“So, what is this, Julie? Are you here to tell me you expect some kind of child support? _Money_?” he wavers on his feet, mind reeling.

He’s kept his tips, and most of his wages in the closet in a safe. It was beginning to add up, but that’s what happens when your expenses are low. He barely eats, smokes when he’s _actually_ awake, rarely buys new clothes, and usually can get his liquor for cheap from the bar, they charge him at cost, because the owner _pities_ him. He mostly sleeps and works, in a never-ending loop.

“No, Ry … of _course_ not …” she breathes.

“It **_is_** , though? Isn’t it, Julie?” He’s already headed to the closet, opens the door, cracks open his safe and pulls out the wad of money he has tucked away.

He closes the distance between them and extends it to her.

“A couple grand is _all_ I have. Take it,” he demands.

She gives him a solemn look, unshed tears still rimming her eyes, “I don’t _want_ your money, Ry …”

“It’s **_my_** baby in there. You said so yourself, and if you’re going to run away then you will be _needing_ cash,” Ryan took her hand, forcing the cash into it, “so just _take_ it, then, Julie.”

She stares at the wad of bills, absently, her breath uneven in her chest, eyes riddled with exhaustion.

“I **_can’t_** take your money … You need it, for _yourself_ …” she persists.

He laughs at that, indignantly. “I won’t be needing it anymore, Julie. I think I’ve done enough damage to last a **_lifetime_** , to Marissa … to the Cohen’s,” his tone wavers when he thinks about the betrayal in Seth’s eyes right after he punched him, during his last impulsive drop-in, “now to **_you_** …”

The various events of these past years were beginning to weigh him down. This one is the _final_ straw for him – the nail in the **_coffin_** of regret.

“What are you talking about?” her eyes betray her shock, searching his own for answers.

“I shouldn’t _be_ here, Julie. I should have died with **_her_** … and I never should have taken up with _you_ that night … it was **_more_** than a mistake … it was deeply _wrong_. Especially … _especially_ because of the consequences …” He isn’t angry, anymore. He suddenly feels _weighting_ defeat.

“ _Ry_ …” Julie’s eyes speak volumes, betraying her internalized pain.

“You’re right not to _want_ this child in Newport. You’re right to take them far away from _there_ – from **_me_** …” he continues to insist, “Theresa saw who I am. She saw that I wasn’t good enough, and you, Julie … you’ve **_always_** seen that I’m not – I’ll _never_ be …”

“Ryan, you’re starting to _scare_ me. If you’re saying what I _think_ you’re saying, it’s not what I want. It’s not **_why_** I came here … I … I would never want you to do _that_ …” she’s in tears now, **_again_** , they stream down her face, unabated.

“It’s too _much_ , Julie. To _remember_ her – to live with her _ghost_ , every day. N-Now this?” his eyes peek down towards her middle, shamefully, “Knowing what that one night **_brought_**? The night I fucking **_betrayed_** her memory … Julie … I _can’t_ …” he clenches his jaw, feels the muscles quiver.

He sees how she is torn, with her eyes filled to the brim with tears that won’t stop falling. He can hear the sound of her breath – shaky, uneven – and every impulse in him screams to take – **_again_**. Now that she’s _here_.

He remembers their **_night_**.

He remembers _touching_ her – **_kissing_** her – being _inside_ of her …

He remembers thinking about Marissa, pretending she _was_ Marissa.

It’s all **_kinds_** of sick.

“Ryan … you didn’t _betray_ her … we tried to keep her _memory_ alive, tried to make pleasure out of the agony … out of the _pain_ … it wasn’t **_so_** wrong, R-Ry … Marissa wouldn’t be upset by what you did … by how you _coped_ …” she’s trying to explain it all and he hears her.

He hears her – but he doesn’t _feel_ right with himself.

Marissa never would have been content with knowing he’d sought comfort in her **_mother_** of all people. How could she have been? He knew how much she rebelled against her mother.

Especially after _Luke_ …

Anyone else she _might_ have understood, but not Julie … **_never_** her …

Julie throws the wadded-up money on the nearby coffee table, then leans up on her toes, crashing her lips against his. He wasn’t expecting her sudden _launch_ at him – so he leans into the kiss.

It’s almost this feral, wild thing inside of him. This lust that has his mind spinning – heart palpitating … **_everything reels_**.

He’s _beyond_ touch-starved, past the point of _need_ , and he kisses her back, then immediately feels self-hatred for it.

He retracts his lips, uses his hands to literally _pry_ her off of him at her waist. Separates enough from her, to _breathe_ – even though its shaky and _harrowed_.

“You n-need to l-leave … n-now …” he’s trying to sound commanding, but it comes out as raspy and **_cavernous_** , instead.

Julie’s red-hot palms find his chest, while her thumbs drag and rub circles into the flesh underneath his shirt. He can’t help but to, keen from the feel of a woman’s touch, after so long without it. He’s hard and achy in his jeans, immediately. It’s just like last time – and _that’s_ what petrifies him.

“Making love **_isn’t_** wrong, Ry. Needing Marissa, _isn’t_ shameful,” she soothes against his reddening lips, allows her own kiss-swollen ones, to drag over them, just _barely_ touching – **_teasing_** them.

“It is when I find her in _you_ , Julie,” he growls in a gruff tone of voice. He can hear his vocals crack and his skin wants to _bend_ and **_break_** from her touches, alone.

He’s _broken_ his body – he’s allowed the harshest of tragedies to befall him over and over, again.

Julie can’t understand – and he doesn’t know how to _make_ her, either.

“Has there been anyone _else_ , Ry? Have you _touched_ anyone else?” she searches his eyes and he’s unable to hide the unbearable truth, present in them.

“Just **_go_** , Julie …” Ryan utters through _clenched_ teeth, lifts his hands to forcibly detach hers from his chest.

“You haven’t … **_have_** you?” she pushes, while grazing her fingers across his upper-arms, causing his skin to prickle with fire. “You’ve just let your hormones keep building and _building_ in you, again, Ry … Pretty soon you’re going to go _mad_ from how much you need **_relief_** from it all … _aren’t you_?”

He realizes she’s _baiting_ him, again. Trying to make him lose all containment of his emotions – his **_needs_** – and the side of him that mourns touch and kisses, **_is_** fit to burst, just like she’s surmised. While the other half, that mourns Marissa, is fighting like **_hell_** to stay the priority in the forefront.

He grits his teeth, trying to steady himself. “S-Stop …” he grunts, when one of her hands travels down to _brush_ his manhood through his jeans.

“I won’t let you do it, Ry … I won’t let you _join_ her there … she’d want you to live **_fully_** … she’d want you to have a _wife_ … a **_family_** , someday … she’d want you to _survive_. Don’t _pretend_ she wouldn’t,” Julie continues to persuade, while effectively brushing and rubbing him through the coarse denim.

He’s begun to rut his hips toward her touch, tightly grips her waist to draw her flush against him, mouths inches apart.

“D-Don’t do _this_ to me, J-Julie … P-Please … I’m _begging_ you … I c-can’t … _not_ **_again_**. Not **_ever_** again …” he’s all garbled words and jumbled thoughts on the cusp of insanity. And she’s the primary cause of it – **_again_**.

“What will you do to me if I _don’t_ stop, Ry? Throw me down the _stairs?”_ she taunts, and that statement crashes into him – **_hard_**.

He’s _never_ wanted to be the man his father _claimed_ he’d become, someday.

He’s never wanted anything even _remotely_ as bad as he wants, _Julie_ , right now, either. And he realizes just how _drunk_ he is – how _unpredictable_ that has made him.

She’s playing with his emotions, toying with his needy cock, and primed to _strip_ him primarily of his _morals_ , in the process.

“That’s l-low, J-Julie … even for y-you!” he whimpers, albeit while _shoving_ her against the closest wall, for stability. He fears he won’t be able to hold himself upright for much longer if he _doesn’t_.

“Maybe it is, but I **_won’t_** let you join her, Ry,” she persists.

Ryan’s pupils dilate, chest ripples with **_fire_**. “You can’t _stop_ me, Julie. You’re fucking off to **_wherever_** , remember? You’re going to have our fucked-up baby, and _disappear_ – and **_then_** what? You expect to _seduce_ me? Take me back to bed as if the _shame_ from the last time we did this hasn’t all but _consumed_ me **_whole_** , already, and I am then supposed to … **_what?_** Suffer with the guilt of _another_ night spent in shadows and _filth_ , with you?”

Julie tilts her head slightly, which opens up her neck, and he seeks _solace_ in the crevice, planting frenetic kisses and clawing at her shoulders, wanting to alleviate the pressure she’s building with her exploratory fingers, urgently.

“I _asked_ to stay once, Ryan. You threw me out. What other _choice_ do I have? Hm? What choice do I have _but_ to flee?” she retorts, squeezing his manhood again, through his jeans.

“ ** _Stop_** _!_ ” he hisses, jerking her wrists up with his hands, pinning them _effectively_ to the wall, preventing any **_further_** brushes of those salacious fingertips over his impassioned skin.

“Close your _eyes_ , Ry. Think of _Marissa_ …” her words make him _shudder_ and quake – he can’t _handle_ her. She’s doing it **_again_** , manipulating him.

“ _Shut_ **_up_** , Julie!” he shoots back, giving her a forceful kiss that has her tremble and keen.

“Tell me what **_you_** want, Ry … Do you _want_ me to leave? Or do you want to be a _father?_ ” she whispers in this nonchalant tone, as though they are discussing weather or some other vastly unimportant matter.

“What I want is for you to stop fucking **_torturing_** me, Julie! What I fucking want is to _never_ lay eyes on you again! And what I want **_most_** of all, I can _never_ have! I want your _daughter_! I want **_Marissa_**! I want to _hold_ her – and **_fuck_** her against this wall! I want her to come _back_ to me! Fuck … You can’t imagine how **_badly_** I want her to fucking _come_ **_back_** to me …” he growls in her ear, temperamentally.

“I know, Ry … But she _can’t_ … you’ll see her again … **_someday_** …” Julie breathes, “… just not _yet_ , okay? When you’re old and gray and you’ve lived your life _through_ … then you’ll see her again.”

Ryan growls in his throat, pushing his hips clad to her waist, letting her _feel_ his rampant **_bursting_** need – letting her feel what _she_ stirred in him, so _cruelly_.

“You’re _fucked_ - _up_ , Julie. You’re _beyond_ fucked-up!” Ryan snaps, fiercely and she flinches. “What exactly is it **_you_** want from **_me_** , Julie? You’re so fixated on whether _I’ve_ had sex … whether I’ve relieved myself with a _hand_ or not … Why? Why are **_you_** so obsessed?”

“I’m not … I just want _you_ to be okay, Ry. I just want you to come back _out_ of this mourning …” she belays, but he doesn’t **_believe_** her.

His spare hand dips down between them, his thumb plays over the tumid bundle of nerves, just under her panties, beneath her skirt. She jolts like a shot, then _shivers_ , fisting her hands in his tight grasp.

“I don’t think that’s **_all_** it is, though … is it, Julie?” he prompts, but she only moans and squirms her hips in response to his sensual touch. “You want to hear about **_how_** I fucked your daughter … how I painted her with kisses and used her for _my_ sexual release, does _that_ make you hot, Julie?” he’s testing her, trying to gage her reactions, while fighting through the pain of Marissa being gone …

“N-No … Ry …” she pants, lurching her hips, compulsively toward his stroking digits.

“It **_is_** … it _has_ to be!” he continues to persist. “You’re turned on by the thought of _me_ fucking your daughter! And you’re jealous, because I **_loved_** her – aren’t you?!”

She makes a loud whimper when he prods harsher at her clit through her panties. “Ry, that’s _not_ —”

“Don’t **_lie_** , Julie! All you _ever_ do is lie!” he snaps. “That’s why you didn’t like me, _wasn’t_ it? Because you were jealous of what _she_ and I _had_ ….”

He sees tears rolling down her cheeks, her dainty fingers clasped to his shoulders.

“You’re not _well_ , Ry … Otherwise you’d _never_ accuse me of such a thing …” Julie circumvents, intrinsically.

He laughs in his throat, ignoring the sudden _cramp_ in his thigh from holding her pinned-up. “ ** _I’m_** the unwell one? Am I, Julie? You’re the one carrying your dead daughter’s, ex’s, **_child_** in your belly, so you have no room to talk.”

Julie fell over the edge, mouth open, hips gyrating, while his fingers _worked_ to get her off in her panties.

“ _Fuck_ …” he breathes when he hears her fragmented little whines of relief, and he almost came in his pants. It’s been _too_ long – way too long. And he _hates_ himself for it – the **_needing_** her.

Unable to keep her up anymore, Ryan lowers her down to her feet, hurt in his eyes, as he turns away. He wants her _gone_ – before he does something he will _regret_ , something worse than rubbing her off on his _fingers_ …

He hears Julie shuffle on her feet, takes the meager sounds to be that of her _clothes_ rustling as she smooths them back into place, but after that … she doesn’t _move_.

“You _need_ to fucking **_leave_** , Julie,” Ryan says, balling his hands into tight fists.

Julie _still_ doesn’t move, but she does respond. “ _No_ ,” she whispers.

Ryan storms to the counter, lifts up his pack of Camels and slides out a cigarette, lighting it, with a _flick_. Taking in a puff, he releases a breath of smoke, letting the feel of it take a crack at _calming_ his well-past-shot nerves.

“Smoking isn’t good for the baby,” Julie mentions, almost casually, still standing where he left her, clear across the room, acting as though he _didn’t_ just finger her less than a minute ago …

He laughs. “ ** _You’re_** not good for the baby,” he retorts, “You don’t _like_ my smoking? Fucking _leave_ , then, Julie.”

She _still_ stays put. Her eyes are narrowed, as though gauging a dangerous animal for any glimpse of a sign it’s primed to _strike_.

“You know … I _always_ wanted more children, Ry. Did you know that?” Julie reveals around a question, out of _nowhere_ , her eyes having shifted from him toward his mattress where all of Marissa’s things still lay, like some kind of _twisted_ shrine to her memory.

Ryan pauses, cigarette midway back to his lips, eyebrows furrowed in thought. “No. I don’t know a whole lot _about_ you, Julie,” he relents, because he _doesn’t_ , in truth. Marissa never talked about her mom as anything more than a _nuisance_. And from what Ryan has seen with his own two eyes, Julie has lived up to Marissa’s _descriptions_ of her.

Julie nods, a somber expression spread across her features. “It’s _true_. I always wanted at least _four_ children. Can you imagine that?” She shakes her head, nostalgically. “Ever since I was a little girl. You see, I convinced myself that I would be a _wonderful_ mother. That I would _never_ mistreat my children the way my parents did _me_ …”

He watches while she closes the distance between herself and his mattress, touching a few of the pictures, in reminiscence, same as she had last time she was here.

Ryan takes another pull of his cigarette, not fully _understanding_ her point.

“What are you getting at, Julie? Huh?” Ryan asks around a release of smoke.

She turns on her heel in order to stare over at him. “What I’m _saying_ , Ry, is that I have _regrets_. Deep regret, especially for how I _handled_ , Marissa. I fucked up, a lot, Ry. There is really _no_ mistaking that, and I _don’t_ have any excuses, either.”

Ryan sets his jaw. “At least you didn’t get her _killed_ , Julie. _I’m_ the one that has to live with **_that_**.”

Julie shakes her head. “But you don’t _plan_ to live with it, anymore, do you, Ry?” She does cross the distance between them, then. Takes his cigarette and puts it out on the counter, to which he gives her a death glare, that she ignores. With quick hands, she peels up his work shirt to display the colorful bruises scattered about underneath.

He’s practically **_all_** bruises and muscle aches. Hardly a spot of him is untouched by brutality – by **_violence_** – and he looks her _dead_ in the eye, and doesn’t say a _word_ about _any_ of it.

She travels her hand over the bruises and he sees tears building in her eyes, while he tries like fuck not to react to her touch on his bare skin. It crawls from the physical burn of aches and pains, but he doesn’t _wince_ – doesn’t so much as **_react_** …

“Ry, you’ve **_got_** to stop this …” she breathes out in this tender way that has his stomach bunch in knots, “… Marissa wouldn’t _want_ this for you … you know she’d be _horrified_ if she saw your skin this way … if she saw **_you_** this way …”

Ryan hates how she is trying to trifle with his emotions, appeal to the pieces of him that will _always_ be in love with her daughter.

“Stop trying to _speak_ for her. She’s **_dead_** , Julie. She doesn’t _get_ to be here, understand? She doesn’t get to **_speak_** ; she doesn’t get to _feel_ … she doesn’t get to fucking **_be_** , okay?!” he doesn’t even realize he’s shouting at her – he doesn’t _mean_ to – he’s just unnerved by her, and so on edge he can hardly breathe! And _she’s_ done this to him!

She doesn’t flinch when he yells at her, she only draws in _closer_ , until they’re inches apart, until he can _feel_ her hand pressed to his stomach, and slight baby bump at his _abdomen_ …

“I _know_ , Ry … I **_know_** …” her voice is trembling, but resolute, and it makes him want to _kiss_ her and shove her _out_ of his apartment all at once.

“Fucking _leave_ , Julie! Fucking **_leave_** _!_ ” he implores her, tears clogging his throat and his nose – he’s _never_ broken down like this before. He’s never felt so out of _control_ … but Julie’s done that to him …

She strokes his cheek with her spare hand, cups the bone and draws him toward her, until they’re kissing. Until his tears **_and_** hers are combined and their bodies are threshed with each other’s heat.

“I’ve failed you, _too_ , Ry, don’t you _see?_ ” Julie coos to him, delicately tracing his hair.

“What the _fuck_ are you talking about, Julie?” he rushes out between hard lungfuls of air.

“I _failed_ my daughter, and recently I’ve also failed **_you_** , too. You’re like a _son_ to me, Ry,” she whispers.

He bunches his hands into fists, clutching tight to the sides of her coat. “That’s even _worse_ , Julie … That makes **_this_** even worse …” he cements.

“I just mean … I mean that I’m going to take _care_ of you, better. I won’t _leave_ … not until **_this_** stops,” she rubs her hand indicatively over his _bruises_ , “not until you’re _okay_ , again, Ry.”

“Julie, I’m **_never_** going to be okay, again, and all I want is for _you_ to go. Go away, take the _money_ , fuck off to your _new_ life … and leave **_me_** be …” he forces a kiss to her lips, drags his tongue along the brims, sloppily.

She retracts after a moment, then shakes her head. “Then I guess, I’m **_never_** going to leave, am I, Ry?”

He narrows his eyes at her, _aggravation_ lit behind them. He pushes off the wall and slithers away from her.

Lifting a lonely book off the table, he throws it at the _far_ wall. “ _Leave! Right! Fucking! **Now**!_”

He pins her against the wall she’d just had him pinned to, next, and punches, right near her head.

She flinches, then shakes her head, rapidly. “You’d _never_ hurt me, Ry. I **_know_** you’d never hurt me.”

“Don’t be so _sure_ , Julie,” he snaps, but it’s only a front and he knows they **_both_** know it.

“You can’t _scare_ me, Ry! I grew up where **_you_** grew up! You think I’ve never been beat _senseless_ by a man that **_claimed_** he loved me, before? You think I haven’t known the rough _edges_ that come with men born and _bred_ in Chino? I’ve known _worse_ than you think, Ry … I’ve been hurt _worse_ than you could **_possibly_** imagine …”

He feels pain twist in his gut which stems from sympathy he’s geared _toward_ Julie. She is like him, in some ways. In ways that _only_ those born in Chino, can understand. But he’s lived in his guilt for so long now, that he doesn’t know any _other_ way to function. And he doesn’t want her _here_ … he doesn’t want to have to deal with the shame of **_needing_** her … of _betraying_ Marissa. Most of all, he doesn’t want to raise a **_child_** with Julie Cooper. To be reminded every single _day_ of his night spent in **_weakness_** with her …

He doesn’t think he’s capable of being a _father_ to anyone, **_ever_** …

“And you can’t _stay_ here, Julie,” he argues. “I won’t hurt you, **_no_** , and I ought to go and kill that _bastard_ for what he’s _done_ to you … but I don’t **_want_** to heal, Julie. I _can’t_ heal, and I won’t be what my father was to my mother. Do you understand me?”

He’s trying to be as _forward_ with her, as he can. Alcohol sometimes has that effect on him. It loosens his _tongue_ and changes certain aspects of who _he_ is. He can be _unpredictable_ , especially when he’s _this_ worked up and with **_everything,_** she’s revealed to him ...

“And what was _that_ , Ry?” she asks, softly, still with traces of _tears_ in her eyes.

He sighs. “A fucking _train-wreck_ , Julie.”

“You _won’t_ be. Because I already _told_ you, I’m going to take **_care_** of you. It’s what Marissa would have _wanted_. And I don’t care what you say to the _contrary_. I’m staying, Ry, and that’s **_that_** ,” she says with such finality, it makes his gut churn _harder_.

“That child in you has its best chance at a good life, if you keep it _far_ away from me. I’m a lost _cause_ , Julie. You’re fucking insane if you _can’t_ see that …” he growls.

“You’re _not_ a lost cause, Ry. You’re just _lonely_ , and you **_miss_** her … You _need_ someone, that’s all … and I shouldn’t have left you _last_ time. I shouldn’t have _listened_ when you sent me away,” Julie’s hands begin to _wander_ , while she says all of this. Creeping across the _landscape_ of his skin, and he all-but lurches, when her hand pops the button on his jeans, and dips in past the waistband of his boxers to get at his sported erection.

He jerks and **_hisses_** in his throat, trying to block out the sensual words she’s whispering. How she’s attempting to _seduce_ him – **_again_**.

“Julie … _don’t_ …” he grunts when those deviant fingers coil around the base of his length, stroking and kneading him.

“It’s not shameful to _need_ comfort, Ry. To think of someone, you **_love_** when you take that comfort …” Julie’s breath is _warm_ on his ear and her touch forms this sinking **_burn_** inside of him, that is fit to ignite all _across_ his skin.

He doesn’t want to give _in_ to this … not **_again_** … not when he’s been so _good_ these past months. Julie steps back into his life for a few _minutes_ and he’s already half-geared to **_take_** her on the bed …

“Don’t do _this_ to me, Julie … **_please_** … I’m _begging_ you …” he’s weakening from her touch, every **_second_**. His skin can’t handle it. His manhood has _already_ jumped to life, hard as _steel_ in her hand – ready and willing to take what his _mind_ rebels against.

“It’s okay, Ry, just **_give_** in. Think of _Marissa_ … think of how you **_love_** her … you _need_ her … maybe our child will _resemble_ her …” she’s _saying_ these things, **_enticing_** him, inserting herself like _poison_ into his heart and mind … it isn’t _right_.

None of _it_ is right …

“You’re **_sick_** , Julie … you’re fucking _sick_ …” he whines, pushing the bulk of himself against her, while trailing _lengthy_ kisses up the line of her neck. Sucking at the skin, wetting the side of her neck with his tongue, kissing, _kneading_ , touching her **_everywhere_** his hands can, exploring through her clothes.

“Come to bed with me, Ry … like **_before_** … it’ll just be you and _Marissa_ … close your **_eyes_** … if it was _her_ baby, you’d be _happy_ wouldn’t you, Ry?”

His eyes are beginning to fill with unshed tears, his skin is starting to _crawl_ the way it did last time, but his heart is **_inclined_** to give in … because he _wants_ her. He needs _someone_ … **_anyone_** … his cock is _screaming_ at him, rushing and engorged with _blood_ … and he’s so entrusted with his **_own_** needs that he can’t help but to allow them to take the _helm_.

“Fuck, Julie! **_Fuck_**!” he whines, hoists her off her feet and carries her to his mattress in one fell swoop he has her _planted_ on top. Laying across _all_ of Marissa’s pictures, just like _before_. He shoves a few of the animals and frames aside, but makes **_haste_** of their respective clothes, leaving them **_both_** naked this time.

All their bruises can be _seen_. His scars are _everywhere_ , and he no longer _cares_ if she notices or not. He ignores her _hiss_ of air, the way her lips part and **_chest_** heaves. She gasps, almost, from the _sight_ of him. His skin is **_far_** from pretty, it’s a lot of _things_ , but it’s nothing to look upon **_anymore_**.

He clamors on top of her, **_kissing_** her neck, pushes her thighs _open_ , slating himself between, and shoves up _inside_ without any further hesitance.

He conceives a _low_ hiss of his own, in a mixture of pleasure and pain from his _sore_ aching skin. He’s abstained from this for **_so_** long that he’d nearly forgotten how it _felt_ to be inside of a woman. To _need_ and **_take_** like this …

He can feel the bump of their _child_ in-between them, and it’s something he’s not felt since _Theresa_. When she’d been pregnant with what he’d _believed_ was his child, nothing had ever compared with the feeling of being enveloped **_inside_** of her, while that little bump would nudge _tellingly_ up against him. It was a _strange_ sensation – same as it is, **_now_**.

He stills for a moment when he _feels_ the protrusion against him, _shudders_ traveling up his spine.

Julie’s hands snake up, _easing_ his shoulders, drawing him down slightly, so that he’s _flush_ up against her belly and chest.

“It’s **_okay_** , Ry. You’re not going to hurt _us_ , Sweetheart,” she says it so sweetly that it makes him **_pause_**.

It makes him feel something _deeper_ than he should for Julie – and he feels the backboard of fresh _shame_ creeping in making him want to **_retract_** , but her arms are keeping him firmly in place. He wants to _protect_ her … protect his **_child_** … and he wants to **_feel_** _something_ other than heartbreak. Because that’s all he’s really felt, since Marissa _died_ … it’s all he’s been _capable_ of.

“I shouldn’t be _doing_ this …” he groans, but drives his hips forward, granting them both the friction they so _desperately_ need, and she whines.

“I know how you feel, Ry, I’ve felt it, too … but you **_need_** this … you need a reason to _live_ and I’m giving you that, Ry. Our **_baby_** will give you that …” she admits, letting her lips fall open in a tender whimper. One of his hand’s cups at her _breast_ , thumbing the nipple peak, watching her **_keen_** as he does.

He doesn’t **_want_** this, but she’s going to be the mother of his _child_ … that hits harder than it should and it **_changes_** things … it makes him _hate_ himself more for how he’s **_treated_** her.

“ ** _Fuck_** …” he groans, pushing his hips forward in quicker, even paces.

He can feel Marissa’s things, like _last_ time, poking his sides, _grounding_ him … reminding him that he’s doing this while _mourning_ her daughter. That also **_twists_** something inside him. But he _can’t_ stop – he’s **_too_** worked up!

She drags her nails against his spine, when he starts to _speed_ up, he can feel her thighs tighten against his hips and knows they’re **_both_** close to the edge. It’s been too long and he _isn’t_ being rough, but he’s going _harder_ than he did last time.

He’s found a _medium_ and he’s sticking to it.

“Say **_her_** name, Ry … You’re _close_ , aren’t you? Moan for **_me_** …” she’s urging him and he wants to fight it, but he quickly finds he _can’t_.

His mind _wanders_ to Marissa. It’s her possessions that _surround_ them … it’s **_her_** little half-sibling nestled _between_ them … and he’ll always feel **_worst_** about that …

“ _Marissa_ …” he cries out her name, because his mind goes blank and he sees her face when he _closes_ his eyes and gives in.

His body _tenses_ , skin draws taut across his bones, and he empties himself _inside_ her. He feels the pulse of his seed _leaving_ him, the rush of blood in his ears, and the feel of **_Marissa_** in the air. He senses her, same as he has since she _left_ … and it **_unnerves_** him, but feeds his lusts all at the same time.

Julie’s walls _squeeze_ around his phallus, while she comes down from her own peak. He growls his _frustration_ in his throat, but he doesn’t try to move off of her, like _last_ time. He just **_lays_** there, lets the small reminder of their _child_ press in on his abdomen. He can’t _forget_ that he’s already swollen her with his offspring. And he _knows_ that her mind is made up … she’s Julie-Fucking-Cooper and if she **_wants_** to stay, nothing he says will _prevent_ her.

Not like **_before_** …

“You can _stay_ , Julie … alright? But **_this_** can’t happen again … **_never_** again …” he breathes out and he hears a small chuckle from her lips.

“I’ve heard _that_ before, Ry …” she responds and he shivers.

“I mean it _this_ time,” he mumbles.

“I _know_ , Ry … I **_know_**.”

* * *

_iii. inescapable eventualities._

It’s not an **_easy_** thing, living with Julie Cooper.

It’s like living in his own _personal_ consideration of hell.

But it’s not for the reasons that one might _think_. It’s because she’s taken an interest in keeping him **_alive_**. More or less, taken an interest in cheering him _up_ , as it were.

She insisted on purchasing him _new_ clothes, because his old ones were too **_rundown_**. Apparently, she was smart enough to store quite a _bit_ of money away in her own separate bank account, which meant she would be well off, no matter _where_ she resided.

She’d also been pretty adept at keeping house, cleaning up _his_ messes, and having a meal on the table whenever he comes **_home_**.

He still smokes, but he does it _outside_ , usually to escape her for small windows of time. And to her aggravation he _still_ gets in fights, though she did manage to ward him off of going after _Summer’s_ dad for what he did to her. Ryan doesn’t **_want_** to go back to Newport, and that was his **_main_** reason for keeping away. Julie’s insistencies really didn’t have much to _do_ with his decision, but he allowed her to believe what she _wanted_.

Alcohol is still a _crutch_ for him, too, because he still indulges in things, he **_shouldn’t_** with her.

It’s hard not to when she insists on _sharing_ his bed. Pushing herself into him at night, until he’s all hot and bothered, then whispering _reassurances_ in his ear, that it’s okay to alleviate _some_ of his stressors, when he _needs_ to.

She’s **_incorrigible_**.

Drinking is one of the **_only_** ways he can cope.

Being that they are _both_ out of Newport there is no gossip that _spreads_ , which he can honestly say, is one of the smallest bits of _relief_ he’s known. He couldn’t _imagine_ what would happen if The Cohen’s found out about what he’s _done_.

This seedy town doesn’t care much for what **_anyone_** does. It’s partially why he chooses to live here in the _first_ place. _Hookers_ , _street fights_ , _drug deals_ … he’s seen it **_all_**. Gossip is of **_no_** contest.

It was a **_massive_** relief that Seth hadn’t stopped by since the _last_ disastrous time.

Of course, nothing ever stayed quiet for him in the _past_ , and he should have known allowing Julie to stay would creep back around – and **_bite_** him.

“Stop moving, _would_ _you?_ Jesus, **_fuck_** , Julie …” he growls, half-between sleep and _wakefulness_.

He’s been trying to catch some shut-eye for the past half-hour to no _avail_.

Somehow, he’d managed to keep his hands off of her for almost a _week_. His work has been _slammed_ and he’s been so _exhausted_ he barely has it in him to consume dinner, before he’s shuffling off to bed. It’s a _tiresome_ routine, but it’s kept the shame at _bay_ this past week with her.

“I can’t **_sleep_** , Ry … I _want_ you …” her words are jumbled and he sighs with a rumble through his windpipe.

“I told you, Julie, what we’ve done is in the _past_ … I’ll raise our **_child_** with you … but we can’t keep _doing_ this …” it’s all empty words from his **_shattered_** heart.

It drives him to the _brink_ of insanity, but they both **_know_** it.

Her arm entwines _around_ his middle, pushes past the _waistband_ of his boxers and palms his length. It riles him almost **_immediately_** and he pushes his _hips_ forward, with a growl.

“It’s from being **_pregnant_**. It’s all these **_hormones_** … I’m always _needy_ when I carry a child …” she whispers. “It was this way when I carried **_both_** my daughters … I couldn’t keep my hands, **_off_** , Jimmy …”

Julie knows he hates it when she brings up _Marissa_ and those, she’s been with in the **_past_** … when she reminds him of who **_she_** is and why _this_ started.

His erection forms in seconds, filling her palm, making him keen with the proof of his own unsatiated needs. “F-Fuck … Don’t **_talk_** about _him_!” he grunts, when she squeezes _right_ at the profusely sensitized head, jerking her thumb across the mushroom tip, causing him to lurch back into her from the sudden **_burst_** of sensitivity.

“Why _not_ , Ry? At least Jimmy kept me **_satisfied_**. He _liked_ to climb into bed with me …” She’s toying with him now – and he **_knows_** it.

But it still seeks to rile him up, because he doesn’t _like_ to think about anyone _else_ touching her. He’s become **_possessive_** of her and he hates that. He doesn’t like to think about the past, because it reminds him of how he _got_ here … to this place of depravity, finding _solace_ in Julie Cooper.

It’s not a **_proud_** position to hold – and never **_will_** be.

“ _Fuck!_ ” he grunts again, when her hand squeezes the very _tip_ of his cock, a second time.

He lurches, bodily, and finally turns around, wrangles her onto her back, dips his boxers beneath his engorged length, and buries himself _inside_ of her.

She makes a guttural _moan_ and he closes his eyes when he _immediately_ feels the bump of their child between them, and moves up a bit to **_accommodate_** the hump. It’s grown in the past weeks he’s spent with her, and that makes him _nervous_. It means he’s closer to being a _father_ every day.

He slams into her with _abandon_ , taking his pleasure, slamming the headboard against the wall.

“This what you **_wanted_** , Julie?! Huh? You gonna let me fucking _sleep_ after this?” he moans out his frustration, angling _into_ her, until he can barely handle the _exorbitant_ amounts of pleasure, **_himself_**.

It’s _feeding_ his body, pushing him closer and _closer_ to the elusive edge, and _she_ isn’t speaking. He feels her nails drag down his back, making **_scars_** , marking him like she has so _many_ times before … and he bites at her lips, kisses her skin _everywhere_ he can manage – and loses himself to it. _Completely_.

He’s _feeding_ his arousal, his needs, pushing himself toward the brink.

That’s when he _hears_ it.

The sound of the door opening and the _unmistakable_ sound a box hitting the floor.

He jumps off of Julie, _swinging_ around, still laced with sweat and nearly at the _cusp_ of an orgasm, and in the doorway a few yards away – stands **_Seth_**.

His mouth is hanging open, doe-like eyes in sheer _disbelief_ , as his hand makes to _cover_ his gaping mouth.

“ ** _Seth_** _!”_ Julie draws the covers up to _cover_ her breasts and baby bump, but the _damage_ is already done.

“So, _wait_ a second …” Seth stammers out, “… the two of _you_ have been holed up here **_fucking_** , while I get punched for even trying to **_visit_** _?_ What the **_hell_** , Man?! Since when do you bang Julie Cooper and not even tell **_me_** _?!”_

Ryan closes his eyes, hoping and praying that when he opens them again, this will all have been some kind of **_bad_** dream. Which Seth appears to catch on, too (he’s already _flicked_ on the overhead lights) and has a witty _response_ for that, too.

“No, Ryan, _you’re_ not caught up in some nightmare, but **_I_** sure as hell am!” he rambles and keeps rambling, like he tends to do when no one else says _anything_ , “So wait, wait, wait, you two are _fucking_ and she’s **_pregnant_** _?_ Oh, this is _great_ stuff, Man … **_great_** stuff … who should I tell _first?_ Mom might have a _literal_ heart attack, but Dad will probably laugh until he **_cries_** , who _knows_ … No, maybe it will send **_him_** into a heart attack, too … Fuck if I know … because I don’t think any of us could have _fathomed_ that **_you,_** _Ryan Atwood_ , ex-boyfriend of **_Marissa Cooper_** , could _actually_ be fucking Julie Cooper!”

“ ** _Seth_** _!”_ Ryan finally finds his voice; his mouth having gone **_dry_**.

Seth perks up his brows when he hears his name and stops. “ _It_ **_talks_** _!_ It **_finally_** talks! After months of me trying, **_now_** , you actually **_talk_** to me?!”

“This isn’t what you _think_ , okay? And Seth, you can’t _tell_ anyone!” Ryan pleads.

Seth laughs for a few seconds, while Julie covers her _face_ with a hand.

“Oh … _wait_ … you’re actually **_serious_** , aren’t you? This is _juicy_ stuff, Ry. Juicy stuff … the women will have a **_field_** day on this …” Seth mutters.

“For the love of **_God_** , Seth, just sit _down_ , okay?” Ryan snaps, “ _Please_. Don’t make me kick your _ass_ , again.”

Seth, ever the squirmy, quick to comply, _sort_ that he is, does as Ryan _bids_.

“It was **_one_** punch, Ry. **_One_** _punch_ ,” Seth insists.

Ryan shoots him a look that has him fall completely silent in a _second_. This was Ryan’s _worst_ imaginable **_nightmare_**. Seth and his _folks_ finding out …

“It was **_one_** night, _once_ , Seth … and I sent her _away_. I’m not fucking _proud_ of it. I’m **_still_** not proud of it, but _that’s_ how she got pregnant,” he starts to explain.

Seth looks between them, then cracks another smile. “She’s _Marissa’s_ , **_Mom_** , Ry. How _sick_ is that? Remember how **_pissed_** you got when **_Luke_** did her?”

Ryan rubs at his temple and fights back a coming _migraine_. He’s had too much to drink tonight and he really doesn’t _want_ to have this conversation right now, but he knows if he doesn’t that Seth will go running off his mouth to **_everyone_** that will listen. Pretty soon, he’ll have, Summer, Taylor, Kirsten, Sandy and probably the whole of **_Newport_** **_Beach_** at his door, come to see the _spectacle_ that is his life.

“You think I’m _proud_ of it, Seth? Do you?! Cause I sure as fuck am _not_ ,” Ryan shouts at him.

Julie’s kept relatively quite so far and chooses this moment to _finally_ break her own silence. “Ryan is all I have _left_ of, Marissa, Seth. Surely you can understand _that_.”

Seth looks at her, pointedly, then shrugs his shoulders. “Not _really_ , no. It’s different if you _talk_ to him, spend **_time_** with him … but **_fuck_** him? Have a **_child_** with him? What the actual **_fuck_** , Julie?” Seth fidgets uncomfortably on the bed.

“I know. I know it’s _unorthodox_ —”

“ ** _Unorthodox_** _?_ It’s practically **_incest_**. That’s what it _is_ …” Seth shoots back and stands up from the bed, starting to pace back and forth.

Julie shoots Ryan a look, and he re-situates his boxers and climbs out of bed, gripping Seth by the shoulders, _firmly_.

“I’ve **_tried_** to push her away, Seth. _Believe_ me, I fucking _tried_ … but she’s carrying my **_child_**. What am I _supposed_ to do?! Tell me? Should I just _abandon_ her? Abandon my _child?!_ I can’t _unmake_ the past! Believe me, I wish I fucking _could!_ I’ve wished **_her_** back a **_thousand_** times!” Ryan shakes him, _willing_ him to listen and _understand_.

“You should have at _least_ come to **_me_** , Ry. I thought we were _brothers!_ I thought … I thought I at least _mattered_ on some small vector of your life, but I guess, we were **_never_** as close as I _thought_ we were,” Seth declares.

“Seth, c’mon, Man. I’ve been in a _low_ place … I haven’t wanted **_anyone_** around—”

“ ** _Except_** , Julie Cooper! The same Julie Cooper that made Marissa’s life _hell_ , and yours if I remember _correctly!_ Why you’d **_want_** to fuck her, I don’t _know_ , Ry!” Seth shouts, back.

“Are you even _listening?!_ I already told you, I _didn’t_ want **_her_** around, _either!_ But … she won’t _leave_ … and I owe her my _life!”_ Ryan doesn’t _mean_ to say that **_last_** bit … it just sort of falls out.

And he _can’t_ take it back, because he realizes it’s **_true_**. To some _degree_ – she’s saved his **_life_**.

“ _What **?**_ ” Seth blinks a few times, “What do you mean, you _owe_ her your life?”

Ryan chances a glance at Julie, from where she is still watching, wide-eyed on the sheets. Their eyes meet and Ryan feels his stomach twist, heartbeat rising.

“I mean … I was in a _low_ place, Seth. _Very_ fucking **_low_** … and I _didn’t_ …” Ryan releases his grip on Seth’s shoulders, trying to force the rest out, “… I didn’t want to be _here_ anymore … I … I made up my _mind_ I was going to find a way to _die_ …” Ryan feels a few tears leak down his cheeks and whisks them _roughly_ away.

Seth’s frozen in front of him, with understanding tears of his _own_ rimming his widened eyes, substantial hurt lacing his expression. _“What?”_ he whispers.

“It’s _true_ , okay? I just … it’s become more and more painful to _live_ without her, every single day, but Julie refused to leave. She stayed, Seth. And she _saved_ my life … I **_owe_** her for that,” Ryan reasons to Seth, truthfully.

“Ry … why didn’t you _tell_ me that? I love you, Man … you _know_ that …” he insists, “I would have done **_anything_** to make it better … It’s been hard for _me_ , too … **_and_** for, Summer …”

Ryan hasn’t seen Summer since shortly _after_ Marissa’s death. But she was so close with Marissa, he knew she was certainly _negatively_ impacted, too. Probably in worse shape than even, **_him_**.

“You couldn’t have **_done_** anything, Seth. And it’s not only Julie that made the _difference_ , it’s my _child_ , Seth. I want to _try_ … for the **_baby_** …” he breathes, “I don’t expect you to _understand_.”

“Of course, I _understand_. I just wish you wouldn’t have shut me _out_ … I wish you would have _told_ me some of this stuff, **_before_** …” Seth sighs, sniffling.

Ryan shrugs his shoulders. “You know I’m no _good_ with words. I’m not like **_you_**.”

Seth laughs. “No one’s like **_me_** … I’m one of a _kind_ , Man.”

Ryan nods his agreement, while eying a tearful Julie, still hiding her _decency_ underneath the covers.

“I know people are _bound_ to find out, now, but Seth, I need to be the one to tell Sandy and Kirsten, _okay?”_

He always knew that _nothing_ remains a secret for long in Newport, it was _always_ bound to catch up to him. Especially, with _Seth_ in the know. He could _never_ keep a secret about anything, let alone, **_this_**.

“You _mean_ it? Does this mean you’ll come _home?”_ Seth’s eyes are suddenly **_big_** , like a puppy’s and _trusting_.

Ryan didn’t see that he had much _choice_ in the matter. Once Kirsten found about this, she’d practically _insist_ that he come home to roost. The care packages he’s easily been _tossing_ aside, would no longer suffice.

“I don’t have much **_choice_** , do I, Seth?” he grumbles, rubbing his eyes, in frustration.

Seth’s smile grows wide and he shakes his head, _barely_ containing his excitement, “No, Ry, you **_really_** don’t.”

* * *

_iv. insecurities & realizations. _

It doesn’t take _much_ for him to pack up the shitty apartment he’s been living in. There isn’t much in it that he _cares_ about. His _possessions_ are few and far between.

Marissa’s things are the _only_ ones that mean **_anything_** to him. He gathers them into one box and packs up his _own_ belongings in another.

Two boxes.

That’s all that will _account_ for the months he’d spent in basic self-made exile in that _rundown_ town, with Marissa on his mind.

It’s a _sad_ state of affairs and he **_knows_** it.

Seth is over the moon, while Julie has stayed very much _quiet_ – which is **_wholly_** unlike her. She never doesn’t have _something_ to say.

They catch a bit of sleep for the remainder of the night, with Seth on the _couch_ and Julie tucked in at his _side_. She still doesn’t say anything as she _drifts_ to sleep in his arms, and Ryan wonders if she’s alright, but he doesn’t _ask_.

He’s too worried about the **_following_** day.

What is he going to _say_ to Kirsten and Sandy? What is going to make all of this, **_okay_** _?_

 _Seth_ is one thing. He’s always eager to have Ryan around, no _matter_ the circumstances, but Kirsten and Sandy are like second **_parents_** to him. He doesn’t know how they are going to react to the news that he’s not _only_ going to be a father ( _again_ ) but that he’s going to be a father to Marissa’s half-sibling.

Even he can’t **_really_** wrap his head around it and he’s the one that got himself into this predicament in the _first_ place.

How is he going to **_face_** everyone?

Eventually, he falls into a _restless_ sleep with Julie wrapped in his arms.

Ryan notices that Julie remains **_unnaturally_** quiet the whole ride back into Newport, trailing behind Seth on the _freeway_. He chances a glance over at her a few times, but she has her hand resting on her baby bump, while peering out the window, watching the cars and houses pass them by.

“It’s going to be _fine_ , Julie,” he says with a reluctant sigh, “you’ll see.”

She only peers over at him with an unreadable look in her eyes and responds, “You _know_ how those people are, Ry …”

He squeezes her arm, and neither of them say anything the rest of the way **_home_**.

He wishes he _could_ run away. That’s what he **_wants_** , but it isn’t an option. He can’t run with Julie … He doesn’t believe Seth would _ever_ allow him to full-on disappear. He’d probably hire a PI to _track_ him down.

He sits outside the house for a good ten minutes, trying to _psyche_ himself up enough to walk the few steps up to the front door.

Julie’s eyes are **_brimming_** with unshed tears and she looks so small that he feels the distinct urge to hold her and make the senseless _promise_ it’s all going to be okay, but he doesn’t know what okay even **_looks_** like anymore. He hasn’t been _okay_ in a long time.

He’s hardly the expert on ‘ _okay’_ and what it **_means_**.

“We better just do it …” he mutters, when Seth gives him his fourth, eyebrow raise from the porch like it’s supposed to **_mean_** something.

Julie sighs, unstraps herself and _steps_ out.

He watches while she instinctively shrouds herself in her jacket, trying to cover-up her five-month pregnant, belly, but it still shows _noticeably_ underneath.

Ryan took her hand, deciding if he was **_going_** to do this … they were going to do it, **_together_** , and took the leap, stepping through the front door with _Seth_ in-tow.

After that, there was a lot of **_yelling_** , blame, and outright _confusion_. The only thing truly _missing_ , was the usual congregation of people at some kind of _event_ , to overhear it all.

Sandy blamed _Ryan_ and Kirsten blamed _Julie_ , while Seth played the part of Switzerland _peacekeeper_.

It was a fucking **_disaster_** , just like Ryan always _knew_ it would be, that left Julie in tears and him at the end of his _rope_.

“This is _why_ I didn’t come _back!_ **_This_** is fucking _why!”_ was the last thing he had shouted at the pair of them, while shrugging off Seth’s attempted, **_calming_** rubs to his shoulders, and storming after Julie.

He didn’t know who was to blame. _Not_ **_anymore_**.

Was _he?_ Was _Julie?_

He’d gone to bed with her that first time for _comfort_. He’d let himself think about Marissa _while_ he’d done it. Let his heart _open_ a little bit, let his skin feel _worthy_ again … and now he has been slammed back down into the _trash_ where he belongs.

He doesn’t _like_ this feeling … The guilt that’s **_stirred_** in him. The way Sandy and Kirsten looked at him – at _Julie_ … like they were **_despicable_**. Like their _actions_ were **_unforgivable_**.

And they _were_.

Ryan doesn’t know _how_ to defend himself, because just yesterday he couldn’t even defend himself **_to_** himself, either. It’s all a mess, and he feels like Sandy is his father incarnate … telling him what a piece of _shit_ he is. How _undeserving_ – how at **_fault_** …

He’s **_always_** been this way.

 _Demented_ … **_unworthy_** …

He feels like _that_ little boy again. The one that curled into a _corner_ beside the couch, tucked into his big brother’s side, listening to their father _scream_ profanities at him for existing. For troubling his mother by leaving toy cars on the _floor_ for her to step on. For forgetting to put **_away_** his toys …

Julie is the only one that saw how much he was **_hurting_**. How much he _needed_ something he couldn’t put into words.

 _Understanding_. Escape. **_Marissa_** …

Most of **_all_** , Marissa …

He’d stormed all the way to the _pool_ house, and pushed himself into Julie’s arms and _stolen_ a kiss.

He isn’t **_proud_** of his tears – they make him _less_ of a man … and he isn’t _proud_ of his **_actions_** , because they’re not _right_ , and he **_knows_** it … but Julie’s crying, _too_.

She’s in _shambles_ on the mattress, clutching her belly, sobbing until the tears begin falling onto the fabric of her **_dress_** in wet spots. That’s when he drew her into his arms and sought _comfort_.

All the lectures in the _world_ could never prevent him from being the man he is. He’s _never_ going to be **_proud_** of this – the _inclination_ he has toward Julie – or the way she _kisses_ him back and pushes her _hands_ against his chest.

He feels her through his clothes and _burns_ , red-hot, to finish what they started the night _before_ , when Seth burst in.

“P-Please …” she’s sobbing through tears.

And he just doesn’t **_care_** anymore, about how _wrong_ it is – and how much _Marissa_ is going to hate him for it. He’s tired of _fighting_ these building emotions.

He doesn’t speak, just pushes up the skirt of her dress, and _slats_ between her thighs, opens his jeans and _buries_ himself inside of her.

Their noises resound, **_merging_** thick and needy in the air, while he loses track of whose hands are _peeling_ at who’s clothes. He needs to feel her skin, he’s **_ravenous_** for it – and he pushes his lips between her breasts, letting his _tongue_ trace between them in a line, before he finds _solace_ in the curve of her neck.

He’s thrusting into her, letting one of his _arms_ prop him up, so that he won’t **_crush_** the baby, while the other explores her skin, fondling her _everywhere_ he can reach in his frenzy.

Their _tears_ mix together, lips finally meld, as he nears his _peak_. He’s become sloppier and his _breathing_ has risen – but he just wants the _aggravations_ to leave. He wants to stop _thinking_ about the look on Sandy’s face, just now … in the **_kitchen_**.

He wants that look **_out_** of his mind.

It’s the look he’s always **_feared_** from the Cohen’s.

And it nearly _decimated_ him on the spot.

He can’t even _warn_ her when he is close to his peak because he doesn’t _trust_ his voice. His muscles clench, and he grunts into her neck as he spills in her. He feels the _waves_ of ecstasy he never deserved, pulsing through him. He listens to the **_tender_** cries from Julie under him, as he slides a hand down to finish her off _swirling_ his thumb around, he nub of her clit.

It’s **_everything_** and _nothing_ all at once.

The shared _emotions_ between them.

It’s this moment that he decides he doesn’t want to be so selfish anymore, with her. That moment he decides that he’s going to take **_care_** of Julie, like he should have taken care of **_Marissa_**. He’ll _protect_ her … at all costs, put **_everything_** he can into it.

Because he’s always been _worthless_ , but he needs to **_not_** be anymore … He needs to be _worth_ something. To give a _shit_ about something and **_protect_** it … and Marissa’s _gone_ , Julie is **_all_** there is. He feels like his choices caused him to lose the _one_ good thing he might have had, before. But he doesn’t see how Sandy and Kirsten can **_ever_** look at him the same, again.

This choice is the one _unforgivable_ choice. But he should have realized that he’d chosen it, the **_first_** time he threw care to the wind, and took Julie Cooper to _bed_.

It should have been **_obvious_** to him, then. But it _hadn’t_ been.

He’s always been so fucking clueless. About **_everything_**.

After a slew of kisses and noises of _contentment_ , he finds himself beside her, half-stripped of his clothes and staring over at the soon-to-be, mother of his child, and brushes his hand against the bulge at her center.

“Julie, I should have been **_better_** , before …” he manages to whisper out, between heavy breathes of replenishment.

She eyes him, through her _continued_ tears, warily.

Her hand brushes over his, tenderly, when their eyes meet.

“It’s _alright_ , Ry … Kirsten's right, I took _advantage_ of you. You were _hurting_ and I … I **_shouldn’t_** have …” she turns her face away, sniffling.

Ryan feels his stomach clench and he shakes his head, forcing her cheek to turn back toward his face. “I _meant_ what I said to, Seth. I’d be **_dead_** if it weren’t for _you_ , Julie … I … I needed to **_feel_** something … anything but the _nothingness_ … the **_emptiness_** … and I just couldn’t _see_ that. I couldn’t see _past_ my pain … the pain of **_losing_** her … not like _you_ could. You knew what I needed _before_ I did,” he sighs out, feeling all twisted up inside, “just like she _used_ to …”

“ _Ry_ …” Julie whispers, a few of her tears rolling down her cheeks.

He pulls her face in close, stealing the _tenderest_ of kisses from her lips. He ignores the burn rushing _through_ him. He knows he’ll **_never_** pull himself out of this guilt.

Ever.

“I don’t care what _they_ say, Julie. I’m going to take care of you _and_ our baby. I won’t hurt you like those that hurt you in the _past_. I … I watched my mother _beaten_ around by my father as a kid. And I’d _never_ wish it on another,” he admits, shakily.

She draws in closer and he feels their baby nudged between them.

“It’s a _boy_ , Ry,” she blurts out, suddenly, shocking his system.

“ _What?_ ” he breathes, not quite believing what he’d heard.

“I found out at my **_last_** appointment, before I came to tell you I was _leaving_ …” she whispers, “I was _going_ to tell you … I **_meant_** to, but you’ve been so on edge. I just … I didn’t want to _upset_ you.”

He furrows his eyebrows, feeling like his heart might _explode_ in his chest. Knowing the sex makes it so real – it gives him _pause_ , even. He feels like his heart might explode in his chest.

“I haven’t treated you right, Julie … I need to _rectify_ that …” he still feels like he’s on edge, even as he says it, but it comes with the territory. He knows that everything he has could be stolen from him again, same as before … and the thought is _untenable_.

Losing _Julie_. Losing another **_child_**.

He grieved the faked miscarriage of Theresa’s for **_months_** , after. He’d done so quietly, _internally_ , but it had hurt him (deeper than anyone _knew_ ) to believe that his child had been lost. That he’d somehow **_failed_** to protect Theresa properly, while they were _together_.

But it was worse to find out in _reality_ , that there _was_ no miscarriage and that she’d lied because he’d shown too much **_animosity_** towards Theresa … too much _disinterest_ in their child.

He’s decided he never wants to be perceived that way again.

“You **_haven’t_** mistreated me, Ry. I was _pushy_ , and **_lonely_** … and I wanted to be _close_ to Marissa …” she argues.

He shakes his head. “We **_both_** wanted to be close to her, Julie. I don’t remember what life was _like_ without her …” he tells her, honestly, “… I was never happy _before_ I knew Marissa. I know that much. But I can’t _remember_ things the way they were …” he rubs his eyes, exhaustively.

She lowers her eyes, “So, what are you _saying_ , Ry?”

He tilts up her chin and kisses her lips, briefly, before he pulls back away.

“I’m saying that _despite_ how much I fought it, you’ve become something I **_can’t_** live without … our _son_ … _you_ , Julie … I’m going to spend the **_rest_** of my life keeping you both safe … the way I _couldn’t_ with, Marissa,” he explains, solemnly.

“And what about everyone _else_ , Ry? What about what just _happened_ in there?”

“ _Fuck_ everyone else, Julie. I’ve tried so **_hard_** to fight who I am … I’ve tried for too long to exist _without_ Marissa … without even a **_piece_** of her … and I _couldn’t_ … I _need_ you, Julie … I need something … and I’ll _try_ to love you … I’ll try to love you like I loved **_her_** …” he breathes roughly in and forces himself to look at her, “I **_promise_**.”

“You don’t _have_ to, Ry … I don’t expect that _from_ you …” she whispers back.

“I just want to do the _right_ thing, Julie. For you and for our _son_ , alright? So, just **_let_** me?” he pushes his face into the side of her neck and starts kissing at her skin, listening to the low moans emitting from her lips, when he finds the sensitive spaces.

“Fine, _whatever_ you want …” she half-moans, half-sighs, with her fingers ruffling through his hair.

And for the first time in a _long_ time, he allows his mind to **_settle_**.

* * *

_epilogue._

_v. closure & eventually._

Kirsten is the _first_ to come around. It’s the **_usual_** way of things.

Julie is able to bring her over to _their_ side by playing on her _motherly_ instincts. Ryan doesn’t exactly understand the _specifics_ , but Julie told him soon after that it could only be understood by a mother and her _unconditional_ love for her children.

Dinner’s were the _tensest_ situations, prior to Kirsten's change of heart.

There had been strictly _no_ conversation, with minimal words exchanged _between_ them. Most of the time, Ryan thought Sandy might _actually_ be plotting his murder, by the way he’d looked at him with such _contempt_ , some dinners.

It was hard for Ryan to fight through the _intense_ emotions of **_unworthiness_** , that came about with Sandy’s _blatant_ disapproval. It always made him feel like that same _scared_ little boy, that couldn’t win his father’s love and approval no matter how he **_strives_** for it.

Most of the time, Seth would attempt to _lighten_ the mood, in his usual Seth-Cohen-style, with wildly _inappropriate_ jokes, that would either have Ryan up and _leave_ , or Sandy storming from the table with a **_scowl_** on his face with Kirsten shooting Julie a scowl, prior to chasing **_after_** him.

It’d been **_hell_** , to say the _least_.

But Ryan had suffered the consequences, because at night, there was **_Julie_**.

She’d whisper in his ear that the baby was kicking and he’d _feel_ the tiny little flutters for himself, through her skin. Their son knew his _voice_ and it’s like he’d **_answer_** to it.

And if the day’s arguments with Kirsten and Sandy grew to be too much, he’d _shelter_ away in the pool house with Julie and they’d **_lose_** themselves in each other.

Sandy’s words had etched under his _skin_ , heavy, constant reminders that he’d fucked up his _life_ … that he **_was_** a fuck-up, just like he’d always known he’d be, and he’d **_lose_** himself to the guilt and shame that came along with being **_intimate_** with Marissa’s mother.

Because that’s who he reminded himself she _was_ – **_is_** – will **_always_** be …

 _Marissa’s_ mother.

The outside world was even _worse_ than the world in their **_house_**. The gossiping women had spread the _news_ of him and Julie, faster than _either_ of them could turn around. Summer rarely came home from college, but she’d come home for _this_.

To see the pair of them, _together_ , because she hadn’t believed the **_rumors_** to be true.

Seth, had been their _sole_ ally for a while. Bringing them bits of news, working on _both_ his parents, trying to bring them over to the **_opposite_** view of things.

But it was ultimately Kirsten that brought Sandy _around_.

Things still weren’t _perfect_ , but Sandy had apologized to Ryan, which was a start. They could eat dinner together without one or both of them _storming_ from the table. The air was chilly – but not **_unbearable_**.

Ryan found a new job, _closer_ to home, which kept him _fairly_ occupied throughout the day. His mind didn’t have much time to wander, because he dealt with customers, all the time.

Retail wasn’t _ideal_ – but it was **_something_**.

Money wasn’t the _reason_ he worked, his **_homelife_** was.

Julie would stay home, _gossiping_ with Kirsten, while he worked until he was _tired_ out, and by the time he made it home he was too _exhausted_ to be that tense come dinner.

Sandy had become less hard-edged, the more time _passed_ – the closer it came to the baby’s due date. And Ryan doesn’t know _when_ it happened, exactly, but it seemed as though one day, Sandy no longer held a _grudge_.

It went from _night_ to **_day_**. Like a switch _flicked_ and he was back to giving him claps on the shoulder and words of _wisdom_ with a smile on his face – and everything was _forgotten_.

Ryan didn’t ask _what_ initiated the change of heart, but Julie had this _change_ about her, around the same time. She’d been _happier_ , he would even dare to say, **_gleeful_**.

He’s expecting her to _burst_ any day by this point, and he’s even taken some time off work so that he can be with her. She can barely move from bed and their son is being stubborn, he’s nearly a **_week_** overdue.

“I swear if he kicks my liver one more time, I’m going to **_scream_** _!”_ she moans, brushing her hand across her ridiculously protruding belly.

He’s laying _beside_ her, brushing up and down the length of her arm, trying to keep her calm, but she’s _restless_ , and it’s practically impossible.

“I’m _sorry_ …” he mumbles, feeling useless as she _winces_ and fidgets on the bed, shoving aside her magazine in frustration.

“It’s not **_your_** fault, Ry,” she says after a moment, seeming to soften.

He stares back at her, then offers a nod, rubbing up and down her stomach, _kneading_ the skin, gently. She tenses, then relaxes into it, giving off a little sigh.

“Does **_that_** feel better?” he asks, massaging the skin a little more, applying a _bit_ of pressure to different areas.

She moans a bit, then reopens her eyes, _meeting_ his. “I just want this baby to be **_born_** …” she groans giving him this almost pleading look.

His hand ventures _down_ , rubbing along her lower abdomen, feeling the _light_ kicks of their son through the skin of her belly. She lets out _another_ sigh and groans.

“There is **_one_** way I know of …” he admits, almost sheepish about it, because he has no way of knowing if it _will_ even work.

 _“Hm?”_ she reopens her eyes and looks at him.

He leans in softly and kisses her lips, **_easing_** her mouth open with his tongue, he feels her all-but _moans_ into the kiss.

The past two weeks they’ve been doing _less_ and _less_. It’s been too difficult to find a comfortable position to _do_ it in. He hasn’t wanted to **_overwhelm_** her so he’s been keeping his needs and frustrations at bay. Pushing the thoughts aside, when they arise, but he didn’t expect such a responsive reaction from her.

“It’s what I heard a few of my Mom’s friends _joke_ about a long time ago …” he pushes his hand under the covers, swirls a finger around her clit, lightly.

She _lurches_ and gasps, releasing this low breath of air that **_sounds_** like a whine. She spreads her legs for him a bit and pushes into his touch.

“Sex … _orgasms_ , can induce labor,” he admits with a slightly sheepish look on his face.

He doesn’t know if it’s true, but he’s willing to try for her. He’s watched her suffer in agony for the past few days, he just _wants_ the baby to come so she can rest.

“You’ve been pulling _away_ , Ry …” she sighs, pushing her hips against his fingers, “… figured I don’t do it for you … too _pregnant_ …” she groans when his thumb pushes harshly against the bud.

“I didn’t want to hurt you …” he admits, pushing his lips against her collarbone, kissing and sucking the skin in parts. He’s been _ignoring_ his needs for longer than he should. He gets anxious when he doesn’t allow himself sexual relief for too long.

His stomach churns, and he peers up at her through his lashes.

“I won’t be _able_ to soon … and I want to. _Fuck_ … Ry … I **_need_** you …” she says with a frustrated tone all her own, lifting her chin in a slight tilt.

She’s on him in a second, pushing at his boxers, peeling **_off_** his wife-beater, and struggling on top of him.

He is _turned_ on by Julie. Despite himself, he’s learned every curve, every nook on her skin and signed it to memory.

Ryan’s already erect for her, before she even had him stripped, so the second she climbs on top of him, she easily slides him in.

“ _F-Fuck_ …” he groans, feeling the tightness of her walls, as she began to ride him.

He used to be ashamed of his wanting – his _need_ for Julie – but that’s dwindled with these past few _months_ together. The outside world doesn’t bother him like it did. Marissa’s always there, lingering in his memory, but he doesn’t fear her wrath anymore.

He _thinks_ about his son. About the life he’s going to have from now on … that’s what he _focuses_ on – or **_tries_** to.

Julie’s like a _conglomeration_ of nerves these days. She’s budding on the sensitivity comparable to that of a live wire, and he barely has to _touch_ her to excite her, he realizes. His hands brush along her belly where he can feel their son kicking like mad, then up to her breasts, where she squirms, pushing them into his hands, as he **_thumbs_** her nipples.

It isn’t _long_ before she’s riding him over the edge and he’s moaning for her, spilling his seed, before he even realizes he’s at his peak – and she _follows_ him with just a few tweaks of her nipples.

She keens and arches her back, and he **_touches_** her belly, feeling the clenching under her skin.

Seconds later he feels a gush of liquid over his abdomen and stares down, realization dawning on him.

“ _Julie_ …” he whispers.

“I … I think it _worked_ … I think my water _just_ broke!” she half-squeals and Ryan floods with color, disbelief on his face.

In _this_ moment, Ryan could honestly say, he’d **_never_** been happier about anything in his life.

“We’d better get you to the _hospital_ …” he half-laughs, under her.

“Yeah, I _think_ so,” she agrees.

It’s some time later, after the long _arduous_ labor, with Julie clamped _tight_ to his hand, pushing their son out into the _doctor’s_ waiting arms, and he’s holding their son, that he realizes, how _much_ his new family means to him.

The _small_ brown tufts of hair that _cover_ his son’s head cause him to smile, and he brushes _tenderly_ across the little wisps.

Julie’s fast asleep _beside_ him and he feels a warm sensation spread _throughout_ his body – and for the _briefest_ of seconds – it’s almost as if he can feel Marissa near him.

He can’t _explain_ it. It isn’t **_logical_** … but he _feels_ her there.

 ** _Watching_**.

And _almost_ as quickly, the sensation is fading away, and he closes his eyes, wishing again, for the millionth time – that one of these days she’ll _return_ from wherever she resides now, to **_stay_**.

* * *


End file.
